That Was The Past
by ohdaito
Summary: With his newly acquired money in his pocket, he ran from the house, stopping himself in the middle of the lawn. Kurt turned back around to see the family standing in the doorway, among these a teenage boy whom the mother called Blaine. AU!Thief!Kurt.
1. Construction

**A/N I've pretty much just been writing drabbles for every idea that pops into my head. I think this one has promise of becoming something bigger...so, here we are.**

**To Remember: You could describe this as AU, I suppose, but there are real elements leading up to the AUness. This is to be a romance, an angst, a drama. Rated M for heavy swearing and content throughout the entire story.**

_**That Was The Past  
><strong>_

"_I'm the president_

_Of the shadow government_

_The grant governor of the federal reserve_

_Public enemy of the society."_

_-33 Degrees_

And, now, here he was.

What events had brought him up to this point, he could not recall. He remembered, faintly, of the way his father had looked at him, even when he wasn't _looking_ at all. During then, when his father was down under in a mild but reverberating coma, he had money from different bank accounts to keep himself, and his son, afloat.

But when days turned into weeks, and eventually, the way time does, weeks turned into months. Money was dwindling, and it wasn't as if they could spend it until the very last penny was gone. Even in a desperate time, money surely had to saved as a backup.

So, when nights at the hospital became more and more frequent, and by the time the nurses and even some of the doctors could identify him by his first name when he arrived in the building, Social Services decided it was a good time to intervene. Perhaps they should have made their presence known sooner? It was no matter now. Past is past, isn't it?

Social Services knew by instinct, or possibly by the boy's weak but angry stance, that it would be more than foolish to move this boy more than fifty-plus miles away from Lima, Ohio. They found a happy, adorable family who were more than happy to take him in. The family was the cliche 'seventies clan, where everyone seemed to coexist in their own little world of peace and harmony.

The family consisted of a middle aged couple, with a pre-teen daughter and son set of twins. And when the boy was whisked away from his empty house, he knew this life would be the equivalent of hell. He would take the empty Hummel residence over this smiling wasteland.

Fortunately, though, the family's house was only a half of an hour drive from McKinley, so he was still allowed to attend his high school, all the while partaking in Glee club, which seemed to be the one small shred of light that shone on life.

The boy threw himself into his studies, into his singing, into his friends. The only times when he was really in in foster family's home was at night, and even then, sometimes he would sleep over at either Rachel's or Mercedes' house. Some nights, a sleepover was held at the hospital - party of one.

Three months later, the boy was ready to collapse. Bullying increased by one hundred and fifty percent, and with that along with his nearly sickening 'new' family, he didn't think he could last much longer in this hell. He dreamed of New York, and the thought was the last comfort he seemed to have at many points.

Then, his most focused bully, Dave Karofsky, had nearly assaulted him. At times, the boy could still feel the other's insistent mouth on his. The boy labeled that as the breaking point.

The night of the forced kiss, the boy skipped his normal routine of staying after school in the library until closing time, and headed straight to his 'home'. His foster parents were working, Mr. Johnson at the office, Mrs. Johnson tending to the shrubs in the back. The boy slithered against the wall, as hidden as he could get his body to be, he went to his room. Getting a relatively small bag, he stuffed two of his favorite shirts, a pair of sweats, two pairs of jeans and a few minor accessories. After that came his phone charger, his address book, his wallet, and a black coat. His iPod and charger followed. A picture of his real family, of his deceased mother and his hospitalized father and him, was placed delicately into the front pocket.

Mrs. Johnson was finishing her job on the brush, and being quick, the boy grabbed a small stash of money out of the family's 'For-A-Rainy-Day' stash. The mother greeted him when she walked in the kitchen, and the boy nodded and offered a smile.

That night, at around one in the morning, the boy curled himself out of his window and onto the dew sprinkled lawn. Not looking back, he zipped up his black heeled boots and slung his bag deftly across his shoulders. And he walked.

With the barely audible _thuds _of his boots on the pavement, Kurt Hummel realized he could go anywhere he wanted. New York? As long as he didn't let his guard down, he could do whatever he wanted.

No one saw him, no one heard him. Because, of course, if a tree was to fall in the middle of the forest and no one was around to hear it, did it really make a sound?

Or, really, if a boy who could be classified as alone was to leave, and no one seemed to care, did it really matter?

* * *

><p>Kurt Hummel turned seventeen today. Knowing full well that he was splurging himself, he had ordered (<em>ordered!<em>, even the thought was ludicrous!) himself a two dollar brownie from the bakery down the road from where he was staying. Sticking a match in the top layer of icing, Kurt wished himself a happy birthday before digging in.

It was midnight. He had decided a few nights ago that this would be the last building he would hit for the fortnight. It seemed like a good idea to lay low for a few days, and besides, he had enough money to supply him with a month's luxuries, not counting his tucked away money for a bus ticket to New York. He was set, and this last house was simply a birthday treat to himself.

Stretching gracefully to his feet, Kurt took a deep breath and threw on his usual night time clothes: black leggings, knee-high, heeled boots and a simple, Gucci black tee. His hair was styled as perfectly as always, and he twisted his arms behind his head, looking up at the stars.

His living conditions were not the best, by any means. He lived in an abandoned upper level of a consignment store, the owner using it as storage but never coming up. A large window casted dark light across the room, the stars glinting ominously against Kurt's cheeks. He closed his eyes, resigning himself to meaningless thoughts of robbery, though by now he considered himself an expert on the matter.

He dare not dwell on how he came to be a criminal, if he should call himself that. He knew stealing was wrong, he knew since he was able to speak, and he wished more than anything to go back in time to tell his naive pre-school self of what was to happen.

The old clock ticked behind him. Twelve fifteen. He better get going, if he wanted to make this trip successful. He stored his belongings in an empty box, hidden by an array of other boxes, and he skidded out the window, down the pillar and onto the ground.

While he slunk around the corner, he thought of New York. He could get there, he just needed money.

The house was an hour walk away, but when he got there, Kurt took a moment to softly observe. He had never been fascinated in a house like this before. It was beautiful, with a subtle Victorian hint to the shaping and colors, and the lawn was simply _divine._ Well tended to, the right amount of decor and it fit the home perfectly.

A selfish part of his brain screamed, '_Get in there!'_, while his rational and thruthful mind told him to skip this house. Another home, perhaps, another night. The thought of New York's shining lights and opportunity drove his legs forward, and soon, he was picking the back door lock and slinking in.

He forced himself not to get too distracted in the furnishings of the living room and kitchen, instead squinting his eyes for astray money. He hoped that because he only took cash, and not belongings and personal valuables, it would lessen the impact if he should get caught. He knew he wouldn't, though.

Picking up a twenty and a few quarters, he continued around the house. Silently, he climbed the stairs, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the pictures lining the walls. He couldn't bear the faces of smiling families, when his were nonexistent or nearly there.

A bright light obstructed his vision. The light at the top of the stairs had flashed on, and a shadow and footsteps were fast approaching. Kurt swayed on the spot, waiting a second in practice before grabbing a hold of the railing, and flipping himself over it, landing with a silent thunk on the floor. The footsteps paused a moment, as if sensing another being, but continued down the stairs. Kurt dove with a roll under a work desk in the corner.

The overhead light flicked on, but shadows still concealed Kurt's body. He could see slippered feet and old plaid pants crossing his line of vision. They stuttered in front of Kurt's face, and Kurt smirked when they passed on, though he shook with fear. The light was turned off after a moment, and sensing a quick escape, he crawled out from under the desk.

A ten dollar bill was laying desolately on the desktop, and unable to resist the urge, Kurt reached out and grabbed it, but not before the light flickered on above him. Kurt whipped around to see a ruggedly handsome man, around the same age as his father, staring at him in evident shock. Kurt screamed in terror on the inside, though his exterior composure was calm, cocky even. He made a show of putting the ten in his pocket, and sprinted away, unlatching the front door and releasing himself in the fresh air, hearing the man's yells from behind.

Stopping himself in the middle of the lawn, Kurt turned back around to see the man standing in the doorway, but with a woman Kurt presumed to be his wife, and a teenage boy. The woman looked fearful, though angry tears slowed their way down her face. The man still looked shocked, as if the mere thought of someone stealing from _him!_ was unimaginable.

The teenage boy, though, looked curious. His head was tilted to the side, and although he still appeared furious and a bit frightened, his features were mainly constructed into an inquisitive look.

Kurt paused, staring at the boy in wonder, but he recalled his wits and ran away into the dark night.

"Blaine," the woman could be heard saying, "Blaine, sweetie, get me the phone. Go to bed after. Goodnight, darling."


	2. Aquired Accomplice

**A/N Quick little something to keep the story progressing...**

**_That Was The Past_  
><strong>

Kurt rested his head on the creases of the vent, craning his head to a comfortable position. He was laying on his stomach on the old floorboards of his home, ears searching for a sound from the consignment store below him. Eventually, the radio was turned on to a local news channel, and Kurt stilled his breathing to listen.

"_...local break in...Anderson household...around forty dollars...young...tall, thin boy..." _The radio droned on and on, the monotonous voice filling Kurt's ears in gaps. Frustrated, by both his actions from the night before and of the ramblings of the radio host, Kurt shoved himself to his feet and looked around the room.

It wasn't like he was dissatisfied with his life. He just wished he could return to living with his father with the occasional visits from Carol Hudson and her son, Finn. He didn't even know of his father's condition, let alone whether Carol was still coming around with Finn.

Glancing towards his makeshift bed, Kurt contemplated sleeping for a few hours to pass the hours away. He knew it would be risky, but he was exhausted beyond belief and, frankly, didn't give a damn anymore.

Collapsing on the blankets, Kurt threw off his shoes and curled in upon himself. He searched for safety, for warmth and for someone to realize that he was Kurt Hummel; he was the boy who ran away from his foster parents; he was the thief that many heard of but no one saw.

Against his best judgement, Kurt fell into his dreams. The radio continued on, faint but heard. _"...thief unrecognized...black attire...may be in partnership with Lopez...residents warned to take extra precautions..."_

* * *

><p>Kurt awoke to the snap of heels against the floorboards. For a fleeting second, Kurt thought the store owner had finally returned to the neglected top half of the building, and panicking, he flipped backwards, getting to his feet. Rubbing at his eyes, he scanned the room, cursing himself for not possessing a weapon.<p>

Kurt's eyes widened, and he took a step forward, crossing his arms against his chest and staring at the owner of the red, stiletto heels.

She spoke, "Hummel, nice to see your _beautiful_ face again."

Subconsciously, Kurt raised a hand to pat gently on his face. Noticing his actions, Kurt lowered his arm and glared at the intruder. Although he wasn't surprised at her sudden appearance, she still wasn't welcome. "Santana."

Santana Lopez mimicked his earlier actions and crossed her arms. She tilted her head. "I'll get to the point, here, Porcelain. I need your help."

Kurt kicked a box towards himself and sat down, pin-pointing his legs. He motioned for Santana do to the same, giving her an agitated hand gesture. "Santana, we were barely friends at McKinley. I don't see why I should help you with anything, unless it's help coming out," he sniffed, leaning back.

Santana stared daggers at him, but Kurt was unfazed. He'd the seen the look many times before; he considered himself desensitized. Santana took a moment for look him over.

Kurt hadn't seen the girl in months. She hadn't changed much, if pardoning her severe change of wardrobe was nothing. She wore a tight, dark dress and red heels. Her hair was drifting across her bare shoulders lazily, and her makeup was done creatively, to say in the least. Her attitude had stayed the same, it appeared. Her eyes, though, her eyes flickered nervously around the room and back to Kurt, around the room and to Kurt's bed, from Kurt's bed to Kurt.

"Why'd you leave, anyway?" Santana finally said. She paused, waiting for an answer that Kurt wasn't willing to supply. He stood, steering clear of the open window and of Santana. She continued, "It's not like things were _that_ bad for you."

Kurt whipped around, anger suddenly flaring up. "'Things' were plenty bad, Lopez. You were not me, you _are not me_, and you don't know a single damn thing," he whispered fiercely, eyes boring into Santana's. She visibly flinched back, but rose to her feet in defiance.

"Whatever. You and I, we need to work together. I need money, you know how to get it. I say we live here, together, and when I've got the money, I'll get out of your life for good," she proposed, baring herself.

"We don't _need_ to do anything together. I, in no way, have to help you."

She walked over to where Kurt was standing, swaying her hips. Kurt rolled his eyes and looked away. "C'mon, Porcelain. You need me, too."

"In what way?" Kurt snapped. Santana grinned.

"Well, two people to snag the money. Two people to look out for each other," she replied, her grin turning into an ill disguised smirk. Kurt groaned, letting his head fall down on a large stack of boxes. "Save it for the boys, there, not for me," Santana sneered.

"You know what?" Kurt said after a moment of still, "I don't care. But one thing: you have to tell me why you are here. Run out of McKinley?"

Santana sighed, and Kurt fought the urge to throw a comment like the one she had before right back at her. She crouched down, settling herself on the floor. Her face was dejected, she was in despair, and Kurt tried not to care though he couldn't muster the ignorance strong enough. He sat across from her, crossing his legs.

"I don't know, Porcelain. Things went pretty crazy when you left, or 'went missing'", she murmured, looking down. "Everyone was worried, and so we got distracted. We lost our competitions, Coach Sylvester took over and Glee nearly fell apart. My father and mother got a divorce, my mother started drinking and like _you,_ I just ran away." She stuttered in her speech, looking up to face Kurt. "Like a coward."

Kurt shook his head, lowering his eyes to the ground. "We are not cowards, Lopez. We're just..." he struggled for words, "stragglers."

"So, we're in this together, then?" Santana said softly, and for a moment she looked vulnerable, as if the world could attack her at any moment. Kurt looked back up and smiled; the world could attack him at any moment as well, and they might as well be attacked together, yes?

"As long you don't double cross me, and I you, then I think we're at an agreement," he said, holding his hand out. Santana glanced at it briefly, before shaking it determinedly.

"We've got this," she nearly shouted, and Kurt leapt to his feet, shushing her frantically.

* * *

><p>"Sounds like you were doing just fine before you came to me, Lopez," Kurt wondered aloud as the two were lounging around the room, at about five, "A news host thought I was in cahoots with you."<p>

"I was doing all right, but I was identified too many times. You, though, no one knows you the hell you are," Santana responded, looking through the miscellaneous storage boxes while Kurt flipped through a magazine.

"How did you even find out where I was hiding, if I was so good at being unidentified?" Kurt asked, setting down his copy of Entertainment Weekly. Santana shrugged.

"I pieced together the information the different news stations broadcasted. They knew you weren't very far away, and that you could be hiding out in the top level of a store. And, anyway, I got the information easy enough from a guy down the alley from here." Santana returned to her rummaging.

Kurt slammed his fist against the ground. "Maybe it's time I move, then," he muttered to himself, looking around the room nervously.

Santana shook her head. "Nah, you're fine. Besides, it's nice here."

Unconvinced, Kurt picked up his magazine once more. Santana pulled out a pair of track pants from the box she was shifting through. She checked the size and put them on quickly. She laid down across an old couch, sighing happily. "So, Porcelain," she started, and Kurt rolled his eyes at the nickname, knowing full well that he couldn't stop Santana from calling him that, "when're we heading out?"

Kurt cocked his head to the side in confusion. "Heading out?" he questioned.

"Yeah...I need money, and so do you, so when are we gonna go get it?"

"No, I just went out yesterday. Besides, I have enough money to last myself for at least two weeks. You go out, then, if you're so set on going." Kurt responded, diverting his attention back to the print in front of him. Adam Lambert had just made a comeback in the music industry when Santana spoke again.

"The whole reason I came here was for you to help me!" she retorted angrily. Kurt shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Today's the 8th of April, as my birthday was yesterday, so we can go out in a-"

"Wait," Santana interjected, looking at him sharply, "yesterday was your birthday?"

"I just said that, yes," Kurt replied, going on, "but if you want to go out next Fri-"

"Have a present, Porcelain!" Santana nearly exclaimed, and she shoved her hand back into her previously manhandled box. She pulled out a thin, black beanie shortly after and presented it to him. "Happy birthday." She stuffed it on his head.

Kurt glared, and took it off, though he placed it on his pillow. "_Anyway,_ we can head out next Friday, whenever that is. Today's the 8th...a Tuesday?" he asked, looking up at Santana for help.

"Dunno. Check your phone," Santana snapped, looking over her nails, her giving mood having completely disappeared.

Kurt sighed and checked his jeans pockets, and his boots, for his phone. His stomach did a flip when he realized it was not there, and he fell onto his back with a cry of anger when he remembered that something had fallen from his pocket when he was hiding under the work desk in the Anderson household.

"Change of plans, Satan," Kurt groaned, still laying on his back, "we're going out tonight." Santana grinned.


	3. Complexity

**A/N Doo doo doo. **

_**That Was The Past  
><strong>_

Kurt lifted his arms, gripping the pole above him with sure hands. Swinging slightly, Kurt dropped onto the pavement. Santana, now substituting her stilettos with run down sneakers, did the same. The street was empty, sure enough, but Kurt was too cautious to simply walk down the line. The walk would be an hour, and Kurt was set on reprimanding himself for being as foolish as a dunce for leaving his phone at the house he was almost caught at. Santana wouldn't have it, though, and she kept a determined pace next him, much to Kurt's displeasure.

"Santana," he hissed, "it's not as if we can talk."

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "I don't see why not," she responded, in a much louder tone than Kurt's whisper, "no one will hear us."

Kurt raised his hand and lowered it again, an attempt to quiet Santana's voice. "Yes, well, you don't know that, do you? It's only one o'clock, there could still be some people awake," he muttered, looking around anxiously. The houses were dark - the _large_ houses, he might add. Making a mental note to hit this neighborhood up later, he continued. "So for now, please, just keep your voice down."

"Fine," Santana grumbled, "I'll shut up." Not a moment later, "How far away is this damn house?"

Kurt sighed to himself and sped up his pace. Santana quickly followed. "Just another mile or so," he whispered, turning a corner and crouching low to the ground as he darted across a lawn, "but in any case, we're just going so I can grab my phone, given it's still there."

"Why wouldn't it?"

Kurt paused to stare at her. "The mother went to call the cops as soon as I left. I'm sure the police could have found an unfamiliar phone in seconds of searching," Kurt said, and realization hit, "Damn, I bet they've found it! They know who I am now, just freakin' perfect."

"Calm down, Porcelain. I highly doubt police are going to rush over when all you took was, what, fifty bucks?" Santana soothed in an agitated voice, looking to Kurt in annoyance.

Kurt corrected, "Forty, if that."

"See? That's no reason to call the cops. We'll just get in there, you'll grab your phone, and I'll just snag a few bucks. We'll be out of there in no time."

Kurt ignored her, and continued wringing his hands in nerves, but soon dropped them to point out the towering house in front of them. "And here we are, Satan. Now, that wasn't such a long walk, was it?"

Santana glared and gestured for him to move ahead. "Go on. You know your way around here."

And so they went. Kurt led the way to the back door, the same path as yesterday, and quickly unlatched the door. Santana cocked her head to the side, and whispered, "Impressive." Kurt looked back at her briefly, but did not acknowledge the comment.

The house was quiet, the same as before. Kurt scampered quickly to the work desk. Much to Kurt's relief, his phone was lying desolate in the back corner, the backlight flashing, signaling it's power shortage. Kurt scooped it, almost tenderly, and put it in his front pocket. He twisted around, straining his ears for any sort of noise. None.

Kurt bent to the ground, out of instinct, and glanced around for his accomplice. She was nowhere to be found, and Kurt found himself reevaluating his partnership with her. Once again, Kurt struggled to find any source of sound; footsteps, clicks, the groans of floorboards - anything that would help Kurt indicate where Santana was would be of great service right now. But there nothing, except the faint hum of the laptop on the work desk behind him.

For a moment, Kurt was somewhat appreciative of Santana's obvious astuteness. Perhaps she _would_ make a formidable co-conspirator, if he risk thinking it. But only for that fleeting moment he thought it, because now, Santana's absence was making him uneasy.

Faintly, Kurt heard the pad of footsteps against tile. As quietly as he could, Kurt slunk over to where the sound could be heard from. The sound led him to the kitchen, and to a hallway. His eyes having previously adjusted to the darkness, Kurt could make out a familiar, swaying figure climbing the stairs. He dare not call her name. The house was too silent, too willing to let something break the tranquility.

Instead, Kurt rose up on the stairs after her, heart racing. He reached out, ready to grab Santana by the arm, but his hand was left grasping the air. He saw Santana twirl around, raising a finger to her lips and once again, she was gone.

Kurt cursed under his breath, and jumped the remaining stairs. A bedroom was to the left, a bathroom in front of him, and another bedroom to the right. Santana could be in either rooms, and Kurt wanted to yell for her. How foolish could one be to _go into an occupied bedroom in the night?_

Taking a shot in the dark, Kurt moved to the left, and slipped in the open doorway, using the wall as a support. The bedroom was large, about the size of his old living room. Kurt shoved the memory away, a lump rising to his throat, and continued on. The bed was vacant, and Kurt felt his stomach clench in nerves. What if the owner of this bed was in the distance?

A nightstand was next to the bed, the neon green digital clock blinking at him: 1:14. A closed door

to the side of the room held posters, as well as a rack connecting two or three school uniforms.

Squinting his eyes, Kurt did not see anyone in the room, meaning no Santana. Kurt twisted his body for a double check, when something caught his eye: a remarkable stack of fiscal bills were perched on the nightstand.

Kurt took an impulsive leap to grab it. His hand had just closed around the heap when he heard a door open, and suddenly, light washed over the room.

Kurt whirled around, and his eyes fell upon the boy from yesterday, the one who had regarded him with an inquisitive wonder. The boy's mouth fell open, and a sickening swoop went through Kurt's stomach - he's trapped.

On the hope of a one last chance miracle, Kurt grabbed the money and ran. He heard the boy run after him, yelling at him to stop.

Kurt sprinted out into the hallway, and screamed, "Satan!", hoping Santana would catch on to the nicknames. _No one_ could know his name when he was doing this. _No one._

Kurt flew down the stairs two at a time, the boy still following. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, time stood still for Kurt to glance behind him and see the boy stretching out to grab him.

Kurt spun around, and things returned to normal speed. He swiveled his head from left to right, and took the left path towards the kitchen. He saw Santana running towards the door, throwing it open and yelling at him to hurry.

"No!" the boy behind him shouted. Santana was grinning, almost evilly, as she ran out the open doorway and screamed for 'Porcelain' to follow.

And suddenly, Kurt's boot heel caught on the rug and he stumbled, almost regaining his balance if it wasn't for the arm that had encircled his waist, toppling them both to the ground. _"Satan!"_ he called out desperately.

He was being flipped over, the money was wrenched out of his hand. Kurt looked up, and was eye level with the boy. His heart pounded loudly through his shirt, and a feeling of shame flooded through him when he realized the boy had stunning features. He craned his neck away, looking away before he could act on any inclinations. He could not think of someone like this - like he wouldn't mind placing his mouth over their's. Twisting his head back to stare threatening into the boy's eyes, he snarled, "Get off of me!"

"No, I won't," the boy retorted, and the curious look was back, to Kurt's intense displeasure, "How old are you? Who are you?"

Kurt pushed the boy's arms off of him, and staggered to his feet, only to be kicked callously in the shins by his subjugator. He fell once again, but only for a moment. Santana was back, and she was picking him up by his underarms. She grabbed his arm, and pulled him away, but not before she reached down and scooped up a fifty from the ground.

"Who are you?" the boy asked again, from his place on the floor. His hair, black curls, were twisted in front of his vibrant hazel eyes. His robe and pajama pants were rumpled, and he looked nervously between them.

"You aren't really in the position to ask questions," Kurt hissed through his guilt. The boy's eyes widened at Kurt's hostile tone, and he moved back an inch. Santana winked at him, roguishly, and the boy flinched.

And then the two left the house, shutting the door behind them and dashing away from the scene as if they had implanted a bomb. Running along to Santana's laughter, the night welcomed them both with open arms. Kurt ignored the boy's yell of anger as it drifted past his ears, the voice sending waves of weakness up his legs.


	4. Much Despised

**A/N I love feedback. :3**

_**That Was The Past  
><strong>_

Kurt was furious with Santana. She'd found a rebellious streak and nearly got both of them, or mainly just Kurt, caught. When they arrived back at the hideout, Santana had a wild glint in her eyes that Kurt immediately resented. He had yelled at her, loud as he could without getting unwanted attention, but Santana had simply rolled his screams off her hand.

"We got money, Porcelain! Don't you see? Besides, nothing happened. We aren't in jail right now, so we're safe," she had laughed, and Kurt had grimaced, regretting his partnership with her, "You up for going out tomorrow, too?"

Kurt had thrown one of his pillows at her, hitting her square in the chest and ousting her over.

But now, Kurt was struggling to fall asleep. Santana was out next to him, snoring lightly. Kurt felt the need to shove her away, but knew it would be unwise to do so. Any other part of the room could be seen by the window, and it wasn't like the room was toasty warm at night, either. Kurt was, to some extent, grateful for Santana's warmth but would never admit it if asked.

Eventually, Kurt fell into a fitful sleep. The ancient clock on the wall ticked loudly as his head drifted to the side, the noise bouncing rhythmically behind his eyelids. His dream was vivid:

_The boy from the Anderson household is with Kurt, in his robe and pajama pants, and his hair is unruly with the one black stand curling in front of his bright honey eyes. Kurt finds himself pushing the stray piece of hair out of the boy's face, and the boy smiles, craning to the touch. _

_Santana is materializing, and she's pulling him away; Kurt doesn't want to conform to her caprices but finds himself walking away with her and the boy tries to follow -_

Kurt woke up, surprisingly calm despite the heavy rise and fall of his chest. He felt around for his phone, clutching it with his hand and checking the time. It was almost eleven in the morning. The sun was reaching it's way across the room through the window, and Kurt shoved Santana lightly to wake her up.

She grumbled and turned over, swatting his hand away with a harsh slap. Kurt glared, rubbing his hand but not giving it a second thought. He stretched, hearing his joints crack from the hard sleep on the floor. After all these months, he still wasn't used to it.

He searched through one of the boxes, the one he kept most of he possessions in, and took out a different pair of jeans. Chary of Santana's presence, he quickly shrugged off his old pair of pants and pulled on his new ones. He threw on an old button down, navy blue with white handprints, and threw on a white tie along with his classic boots.

He walked back over to Santana. He nudged her sleeping body with his foot. "Satan, I'll be right back," he said, picking up a few discarded bills from under her form, "I'm getting breakfast, as per usual. Be careful, all right?"

"Wait," Santana mumbled, rolling over to face him. She stared at him through hazy eyes and rumpled hair. "Why're you getting food?"

"Unless you want to starve, my dear Santana, I have to go out to the bakery to get a loaf of bread. It's just a weekly thing," Kurt replied sweetly, pursing his lips. He counted the bills.

"You can't use your real name, though," Santana said, sitting up and running a hand through her riotous locks. Kurt nodded slowly.

"Of course I can't. That's why when I go out, my name is Harry Zidler," Kurt responded. Santana laughed a bit.

"I see. _Moulin Rouge._ Classic Porcelain," Santana remarked, before falling down back on her bed and curling up. Kurt threw a sweatshirt at her, telling her to get up.

"Think of an alternative name. You can never be too careful," Kurt told her before heading towards the window, "I'll be back soon, then." He threw his leg over the ledge, and dropped himself down on the pavement below.

"I'll be Sparkling Diamond…" he heard Santana mock sleepily from the bed upstairs, and he turned away from the alleyway with an amused look upon his face.

Kurt weaved his fingers through the cash bills in his front pocket. He held on to it tightly, safely, as if it meant more that just _a few ones and tens_. Perhaps it does, Kurt pondered as he crept as discreetly as he could through the sunlit streets, perhaps it does mean more. He cut the thought off there; he needn't think of trivial things like whether money means more than just a form of payment; this is his life now, and the money is supporting his life.

In the glass of a store display window, Kurt checked his reflection. He mussed his hair a bit with his hands, molding the individual strands to spike instead of coif. It was his best option: differ his appearance as much as he could in order to not be recognized as either Kurt Hummel, the runaway boy, or simple _the infamous thief. _

Kurt opened the door to the nearly empty bakery. Silently, he wandered over to the day-old section, picking up a loaf of bread and a large cinnamon roll. There was another man looking at the baked goods, alongside Kurt, and Kurt felt a rush of apprehension towards him. Kurt looked away, and upon choosing a small jar of jam, he walked towards the cashier. The man picked up a small package of donuts and stood behind Kurt in the line. Kurt looked over his shoulder uneasily, just for a moment, before clearing his head and paying for his food. He was heading towards the door -

"Hey, have we met before?" the man asked, turning to and addressing Kurt. "I feel like I've seen you before."

Kurt stilled, but about-faced nonetheless and responded, "No, I'm sure I just have one of those faces." He turned to leave, but the man spoke once more, louder this time.

"What's your name?" he asked, crossing his arms and throwing a ten dollar bill on the counter for the cashier. Kurt looked up in annoyance, before eye leveling with the man.

"Harry Zidler, sir," he replied, forcing the 'sir' through clenched teeth. He gripped his bag of goods more tightly and excused himself out the door. Once outside, he plastered a happy grin on his face and continued on, breathing strongly.

Once on the sidewalk, he nearly bumped into a woman, who held him up and slapped him lightly on the arm. "_Harry_," she stressed, looking over his shoulder, "let's eat in the park, hmm?"

Santana. Noticing the look in her eyes, he nodded and allowed her to lead him away. Luckily, the man who had trailed Kurt from the bakery did not follow. Kurt was shaking his head and Santana was simply shaking as the two headed to the bright green landscape of the public park.

Finding a bench atop a hill overlooking the playground, the two sat down and lounged their legs across the wood. Kurt held the two baked goods in his hands, and Santana grabbed at the cinnamon roll excitedly, as if her eyes had never seen such a thing. Kurt handed it to her, but not before ripping off a small portion and popping it in his mouth as Santana protested. For the next few minutes, the two ate in respective silence.

Santana had a far away look in her eyes as her gaze shifted from the playground to the recreational buildings behind her. She chewed slowly, as if memorizing the food. She blinked quickly.

Kurt was about to ask what was troubling her, when the look was gone from her eyes and she was digging back into her large cinnamon roll and complaining idly about the fat content. Kurt snatched another piece of it and put the barely eaten loaf of bread away in the bag for later's purposes.

"I don't know. I think I should stay home for one more day, just to be sure. It's freaky that the same robber returned two nights in a row, and I don't want to leave my parents by themselves," a voice was heard from behind them, plus the scuffle of multiple pairs of shoes against the gravel path.

"Man, c'mon, your parents can take care of themselves! You don't have to worry about them this much," a different voice laughed.

"Well, Thad, maybe _I_ just want to know that they're safe!" the first voice retorted. The voices were getting closer, and Kurt exchanged an anxious glance with Santana. Surely the voices they heard were not talking about the robbery from last night?

"Lay off," a third voice sounded, "Blaine has the right to be concerned for his parents."

Santana looked down and muttered, "Shit." underneath her breath as Kurt became rigid in his seat as he looked over his shoulder quickly. Oh, of course it was the boy from last night and two nights ago. How could he forget that face?

"S'fine, Santana," Kurt spoke in hushes, mentally slapping himself for not settling on an alias name for Santana earlier, "just stay still. Remain inconspicuous. Unobtrusive."

"What the hell does that mean?" Santana hissed, just as the three boys walked directly behind their bench.

Kurt lowered his head, looking through his eyelashes at Santana whom of which was twisting her fingers together in worry. The crunching footsteps of the three boys stopped, and Kurt swore his heart stopped the same time his breathing did. He waited for noise.

"Blaine, dude, let's go! Only an hour for lunch!" the second voice drawled impatiently. "What are you looking at?"

"You know that girl? Or do you know that…oh, you know that boy!" the third voice exclaimed, "Boyfriend and you didn't tell us." The voice sighed.

Kurt decided it was the best time to look up. And _damn_, no it wasn't; the boy's (Blaine's?) eyes connected with his and there was a drawn out moment of bitter realization. Kurt felt sick to his stomach. This was the third time this Blaine boy had seen him! If Blaine put two and two together, Kurt could easily have the cops swarmed in on him.

Kurt's thought process was cut short. He distantly saw Santana stare baring holes in the side of his head, and he could hear the confused chatter between the second and third voices, but all he could focus on was the boy's bright hazel eyes, the same as yesterday, and the boy's raven hair, gelled back but still striking. The beautiful pouting, pink lips formed an oval, wondering and thinking and concluding, and Kurt didn't know what to do. He was captivated.

And you can't be!, a rational voice from inside his voice screamed, what the hell are you doing?

Grabbing onto the remaining bits of his wits, Kurt looked away, back to Santana who glared and scowled. Blaine's friends had grabbed onto either of his arms and were walking away with him, and Kurt could still see Blaine's gorgeous face gazing both wonderingly and fearfully at him.

The worst combination, he thought as he ran a hand over his face in distress.


	5. Nomads

**A/N Thank you for your reviews! Anonymous reviews have been enabled, too, from the suggestion of a reviewer. Huzzah!**

_**That Was The Past  
><strong>_

"Name," Kurt demanded of Santana the next day. After seeing Blaine and his two friends the previous morning, Kurt and Santana were at a loss of what to do with themselves. Finally, they had settled on simply not speaking to each other for the remainder of the day. They did not go out that evening, although Santana had tried to lure him into the idea, claiming it would give the Blaine kid a good fright.

"As if he wasn't frightened before!" Kurt had retorted, "Hell, he's probably scared out of his mind _now!"_

So the two did not go out, not to the Anderson manor, nor to the other households on Kurt's, lack-of-better-title, Hit List.

"Name," Kurt repeated after a moment of silence. He set down his book. "Santana! C'mon, yesterday was a perfect example of why we need alias names! I am Harry Zidler, now what are you?"

He was completely serious. Only a handful of times before has his name been wanted by a stranger, and every time Kurt had given the person his decided Harry Zidler. What if Santana was asked as well? Her name was already known, and she had better find a new, substitutable identity if she wanted to work with Kurt.

"Oh, I don't know," Santana groaned, "Can't you think of one for me?"

"If I pick one for you," Kurt narrowed his eyes, "then you will have a name from The Sound Of Music."

"Ugh." she crossed her arms and sat up from her lounging position on an old couch, "My name will be Jessica Simpson. Generic, 'ya?"

"Acceptable, but a well known singer? Ah, well, it'll have to do." Kurt nodded, mostly to reassure himself.

In the hours of daylight the two had to endure, Kurt busied himself with tinkering with the odds and ends of the consignment store's storage. He'd known many of the items, sometimes if he delved deep enough he could scrounge a few articles of clothing in his size and, if he was lucky, fashionable too.

Looking around at his makeshift home of four months, Kurt sighed. He did not want to admit this to himself, but he knew he relatively loved this place. It was the perfect hideout: well concealed, comfortable, has an overwhelming surplus of items and, most importantly, not far from his real home in Lima. On many occasions, Kurt fell asleep to the warm thought of going back home to the Hummel residence, walking in through the door and seeing his father, Burt, lounging on the couch with a bag of chips in hand and a welcoming grin on his lips. But that's never going to happen.

Kurt didn't even know the condition of his father.

He could be dead, and Kurt would never know.

Kurt swallowed over the lump in his throat, returning to his absentminded rummaging. He knew it was intrusive, beyond so, but he found peace in doing it. He would organize the items in the boxes like he used to organize his CD collection and his extensive moisturizing routine.

Things like fiddling with consigned possessions or taking latent walks in the park took Kurt's mind off of what was really happening and who he really was.

A criminal.

"Porcelain!"

Kurt snapped himself away from exploring the expository aspects of his life to look sharply at Santana. Her eyes were lidded and she looked as if she would fall asleep at any moment, and Kurt felt his features slackening. "What is it?" he asked, walking over to her and sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her.

"How much money do we have anyway?" she asked, "Total amount."

Kurt found himself reluctant to answer. Why, he knew his savings to the very last cent, and he often worked his fingers through the course fabric to count how much he really had. He knew the sum by heart, but he did not know if he wanted to share this information with Santana. The two have only just formed a 'partnership', and before then Santana was less than friendly towards him - during school, Glee club rehearsal and even at the mall. He had to stop and think for a moment, '_Why am I working with her again?' _

"Not telling you," Kurt replied simply, smoothly, "How do I know you won't run off with it while I'm sleeping?"

"I may be a bitch," Santana retorted crossly, "but I don't steal - not anymore, at least."

"You are forgetting what we do nearly every night," Kurt deadpanned. He rolled his eyes, neglecting the pointed look directed his way. "Satan?"

"What?" Santana rolled away from him, surprising him as she was not pushing the subject.

"We _are_ in this together?"

Santana did not look at him, and Kurt could feel the fatigue radiating off of her, though he hadn't a clue why. He wondered if there was something keeping her up at night. "I wouldn't be here, Porcelain, if we weren't."

* * *

><p>A month passed. Both rallied themselves against what they considered the best and toughest houses on the different streets, finding the money and keeping it as their own. But of course, there became more and more reports, because Santana was too carefree and spontaneous, and Kurt's eyes caught a challenge he simply had to face. No one knew it was Kurt Hummel and Santana Lopez. If anything, the two were infamously described as a 'tall, pale teenage boy and a Latina teenage girl'.<p>

Steadily, Kurt could feel his income growing. Santana and him stole more money than Kurt originally deemed appropriate. When Kurt first started in what he liked to describe as his branch in the thievery corporation, he only stole single bills. Then, of course, it had doubled then, inevitably, tripled.

Kurt would look down at his hands while his boots and Santana's sneakers scuffed the ground as they ran away from their latest hit, and he would wonder how he managed to steal more than a hundred dollars in one house.

Santana seemed to have a knack for stealing possessions, getting a thrill out of pawning the item for money. She stole jewelry mainly, and ornaments, and Kurt frowned upon this. She wouldn't stop, though, no matter how many times Kurt voiced his opinions.

He and Santana made good business partners, Kurt hated to admit. He knew it was true, and he also knew Santana felt the same way - the duo evened each other out, whether they wanted to or not.

Nothing more became of the boy from the Anderson household. Kurt had forced the encounters far from his mind. He had no reason to dwell on petty matters like infatuation, if he was to be direct with himself. He had a job to do, a horrible, _nasty_ job, but a job nevertheless.

Their hideout was still secure, it was still a _hideout_. The money was coming in through grand masses of green. They were fed. They were content.

Yet everything has a breaking point; Kurt remembers his with his foster family, how he had retreated to a life of theft just to get away from his suffocating existence. He realized; a breaking point is the moment in time when you realize life is, and will certainly never be, on your side.

Because there was a police cab tracing it's way from one side of the street to the other, ostensibly _guarding_ their hideout and Santana could hear a cop interrogating the store owner roughly in the first level.

Regretfully, in the back of his mind, Kurt knew this day was bound to come. He had been delusional to think this home could be a permanent hideaway. He was a thief, for god's sakes; and a thief was a nomad, as well.

Santana rushed around the room as quietly as she could, stuffing her minimal amount of clothing into a bag. Her eyes lit up in both terror and thrill.

Kurt managed to grab every last penny of his money and fold it up to the smallest area he could manage. Quickly, he rolled up the pant leg of his jeans and splayed the money against his calf. He shoved the denim back down and nearly threw on his boot. Nodding to himself, he felt complacent with the placement.

In minutes, they had packed up everything and a bit more. Kurt had gotten their makeshift bed to roll up, it was only blankets and a few pillows after all, and had thrown it haphazardly in one of the boxes. Santana was taking one last look through the boxes, and Kurt pushed her towards the window.

"_Ma'am, please, if you would just let us investigate…"_ a voice carried itself up the stairs. Kurt knew they a minute, if that.

Taking a last glance around the room, and feeling satisfied with the lack of evidence, Kurt jumped down from the window after Santana and wondered where they would head next.

It was broad daylight, and there were cop cars roaming around - whether it be for them, or for any other reason - and Kurt and Santana had to be extra cautious; New York depended on it.


	6. Unsafe Territory

**A/N Guise. November 8****th**** is almost here… **

_**That Was The Past  
><strong>_

The sun was gleaming softly behind wisps of clouds, that couldn't accurately be described as _clouds_, and the red and purple colors curled their way around Kurt's body as he rested himself against a rough tree trunk. Around him, a bird sang a sorrowful song and a set of swings creaked inharmoniously with the tree's rustling of branches.

Santana was shrugging off her shoes and climbing herself up the tree, to Kurt's silent amusement. She had been quiet on the walk here, and had barely even spared a glance in Kurt's direction. Kurt only spoke a handful of times, whether it be to tell her which direction to look out for, or to put on her dark jacket for camouflage.

Now, they were standing between the few trees in a small brush. They had been walking all day, after leaving their hideout in the morning. They had no place to go to, and things were spiraling downward quickly.

Kurt crossed his arms and looked around him, ignoring Santana's noises of feet against bark. He couldn't see much past the scattered buildings, and he hadn't a clue of where to head next. He had heard of a small building near a school, but had previously decided against it.

"'Yo, Porcelain," Santana called from her post at the top of the tree, "I can see a school from up here! Why don't we go there?"

Kurt sighed, and looked up her way. "Is that why you climbed up there? To _survey_ the grounds?"

"Well, yeah, I didn't see _you _doing much," she snipped, and in an instant she was jumping down next to Kurt. She put her discarded shoes on and strode away from him, slinging her bag across her back. "C'mon, let's go. It's getting dark and I'm hungry."

"Santana!" Kurt caught up with her. "I know there is a school there, but I don't like the idea of staying so close to hundreds of students and dozens of faculty members. It's too big of a risk."

She rounded on him. "We need some place to sleep! And I couldn't care less that it's a school because if we don't find shelter quick, it'll get dark and the cops will increase their searches for us."

Kurt shot her an annoyed look, but after a minute log glaring contest, it seemed, Kurt gave in. "But only because I'm cold and worn out."

The school was an extravagant building, with domineering brick walls and almost gate-like doors. Nothing was getting through those walls unless they had authority, that was for sure. Kurt felt himself shrinking at the sight of it, and second guessing his agreement to stay here for the night. Surely a building of this size and professional proportion had some sort of trained security at all times?

He tried voicing his thoughts to his accomplice, but Santana merely shrugged his comments off her back. She continued on.

In the shadowed environs of the grounds, the two found a small, secluded building. It seemed like a storage unit, and with little effort Kurt bargained the lock open and the two were shifting around inside, taking in their surroundings.

The room was small, enclosed, but cozy, if one could use the word. It was well organized, large equipment like the two lawnmowers were harboring space in the corner, and smaller tools were hanging on the walls along with a few windows at eye level. The middle of the room, pardon empty bags of soil, was completely bare. Turning to his left, Kurt caught Santana nodding her approval.

"One night, Satan," Kurt muttered, dropped his bag softly to the ground by his feet. "One night, then we are out of here. It's too risky."

"Calm down," she retorted, already fixing herself a bed with the blankets and clothes she had brought, "Now come on. Let's see if I can poker any of your money away from you."

After a few rounds of cards, with Kurt keeping all his money in his possession, the once rosy sun had died down to a chilling black. Nothing could be heard around them, except the melodramatic hoot of owls and the building settling through creaks and groans. Kurt lit a match and shakily got to his feet, shuddering in the bitter cold surrounding his body. He made his way over to the door, checking to make it was properly locked.

Santana followed him with her eyes. "You look worried, there," she observed. Kurt blew out the match with his breath and enveloped himself into the blankets.

"Obviously it's a boarding school, Santana. Any one of the overnight students could come down for an…an adventure or a midnight rendezvous! It's dangerous staying here." Kurt closed his eyes in apprehension.

"We'll be _fine_," Santana accentuated, "but if you want, we can take shifts."

Kurt liked the idea, quite a bit actually, but upon looking over Santana's face, at the obvious fatigue, he sighed. "I'll take first shift, then," he whispered, and took half of the blankets from the makeshift bed.

Santana grumbled her assent and turned over on the hard cement, falling asleep easily. Kurt wished he could too, but knew it would be too chancy. Hell, he wished he wasn't here at all, in this position, in this goddamn thieving lifestyle.

It's been nearly six months. Five and a half, more like it, but the evidence was lying in his boots: he had six months of stolen money, and he hated to admit it, but he was proud.

He despised what he had become. This cowardly crook who couldn't handle a life with a foster family, so instead of dealing with it as any normal teenager would do, he had to go and run away. For money, he had to break into people's homes and take _their_ money. It was a terrible, terrible life.

He hated how good at it he had become.

A branch snapped outside the door. Kurt leapt to his feet in a flash, silent and lethal. Santana shifted in her sleep, but otherwise made no sound. Kurt strained his ears for any sort of sound.

"_Jeff, this is by far the stupidest thing you've done."_

"_No, the stupidest thing I've done is let my hamster take a bath in the toilets."_

Kurt gulped, recognizing one of the voices, but surely it could not be…

He moved to wake up Santana. Shaking her roughly, and coaxing her out of her sleep with urgent words, Kurt hurried to scrounge up their stuff and hide it behind the larger equipment. Santana was moaning and nearly hissing at him, but he paid it no mind. Getting frustrated and nervous, he grabbed a hold of her waist and lifted her off the ground, pushing her lightly into a hiding position.

She caught his pleading look and she quieted down, even through her slumber induced haze. Kurt crouched down behind one of the two lawnmowers while Santana scuttled over to him. "What is it?" she whispered hoarsely, rubbing her eyes.

"People outside of the door," Kurt breathed. He held a finger to his lips, heart racing and mind reeling. "Listen."

"_Whatever. Just get your power cords so we can get back into the building. It's freezing out here." _

"_I would if I could get this damn lock open! Help me, would you?" _

Kurt grabbed for Santana and his bags. Behind him sat a window, and he stretched himself upward to open it up with a loud creak. The window was completely open, but Kurt felt the air freeze around him at the noise.

"_You hear that?" _

"_Yeah, man. Probably a raccoon or something. I want my power cords!"_

Kurt shot a look to Santana and she helped him throw their stuff outside. They landed with a silent thump on the grass.

"What do we do now?" Santana muttered quickly. Kurt thought, shaking his hands in worry, his breath coming in long pants. This was so surreal. How could this be happening?

"Okay, okay," Kurt started, "You go through the window. Create a distraction. Run around. Scream. Streak, I don't care!"

The lock from outside jangled, and the two could hear the two boys outside struggling to get it open.

Kurt continued urgently, "Once you have their attention, they will hopefully run after you to see what kind of drug you're on. I'll follow you through the window, grab our stuff and run towards the road. If you divert their attention west, then I can get our stuff without them noticing. Got it? You follow me in five minutes."

Santana nodded, almost eagerly. Hungrily. "Five minutes then, Porcelain. Now lift me up."

Kurt grabbed her feet and hoisted her up towards the window, and before Santana slung her leg over the edge and jumped down, she whispered with a gleeful glint in her eye, "You have to admit, you love the excitement and the danger."

Santana disappeared. A moment later, she could be heard singing the lyrics to Valerie. The two boys could be heard giving gasps of shock and wonder. Kurt listened for their footsteps to die away.

He grabbed onto the ledge of the window and pulled himself up. He almost landed on their stuff, but missed by a fortunate inch. He grabbed the bags and hung it across his back before slowly creeping away from the building. Santana was still singing, and one of the boys whose voice he did _not_ recognize was racing after her, his mouth stringing along question after accusation after threat.

Cautiously, Kurt moved across the wide lawn. He made out Santana's figure in the distance, and a boy following her. Where was the other one, though? With newfound strength, Kurt hurried towards the road.

"_Who's that?_" the boy who was chasing Santana called. _"Blaine, there's another one!" _

"_Another of what?" _a different voice replied, the voice Kurt knew well enough.

"_Another of those…hideaways! I don't know! C'mon, man, look towards the woods! It's carrying bags! Do you think he stole from the school?"_

And shit!, Kurt thought. He looked around but saw no one approaching him, but that only put his senses in full gear. Hyper aware of his surroundings, he moved along. He could see the black expanse of the road ahead of him, and if he could only get there…

Suddenly, he was being held back by the strings of his bags. Looking behind him, Kurt's heart skipped a beat at the sight of a face he knew one too well.

Kurt didn't say anything. He struggled to get himself free, latching onto the hands that were holding his bags back and trying to pry them off. It didn't work. Could he just drop the bags and make a break for it? No, he knew Santana's money was in one of the bags.

Kurt slammed his heel down on the boy's foot, as hard as he could, and the grip on his bags fell. He stuttered in his steps but regained his balance and ran. He was so close -

"Stop!" the boy, Blaine?, called and then Kurt was being pushed over onto his stomach. He felt the air leave his chest as he landed on the cold, rough ground. The bags were being pulled from his arms and Kurt felt himself being flipped over as the boy nearly straddled him to keep him in place.

He only hoped Santana was far, far away.

Blaine groaned quietly. "Why is it always you?" he said with audible fear.

Kurt turned his head away and didn't answer. He had no response. Why _was_ it always him? He resisted, he fought back, he did everything he could but got no reward. Santana's wondrous singing was fading away.

"Get. Off. Of. Me!" Kurt hissed, thrashing his body about. Blaine only held on stronger.

"What were you doing in the storage building?" Blaine asked, shaking out of coldness or…fright?

"Hiding," Kurt found himself answering truthfully. Still, it didn't keep the snarl out of his voice.

"From what?"

"This isn't twenty questions! I'm not going to answer every one of your damn inquiries."

Blaine didn't say any more. Kurt didn't make conversation. Kurt let his head fall back onto the ground in exasperation, his mouth falling open as he closed his eyes and waited for a solution.

One last try, he thought.

He became still, and Blaine visibly relaxed. A moment later, Kurt was kicking himself up off the ground, only to be shoved back down by a forceful hand. Blaine was looking over him in horror, and Kurt screamed in frustration. He wasn't getting anywhere anytime soon.


	7. Blackmailed

**A/N Nooovveeemmmbbbeeerrr 8ttthhh.  
><strong>

_**That Was The Past  
><strong>_

Kurt let his neck give out, and his head hit the rough, solid grass. Tilting his head to the side, he saw the miles upon imaginary miles of bare ground. The road was close, so far, so possible to reach, so impossible…

With weight crushing his hips, the focal point to escaping, there was no way he could get away. And what a way to be found! Getting brutally _pushed over_ by a boy no older than him, and forced to lay in the dewy green shards while the boy sat upon his waist in order to hold him down. And when the police came, Kurt assumed the boy who had chased Santana had called them already, he would be caught and recognized - all with nearly nine thousand dollars in his boots and bags.

Blaine, the boy above him, was shaking. Kurt would be too, the cold was unmerciful and seemed intent on getting them both sick, if it wasn't for the layers he had put on last minute. Blaine was looking around anxiously, shifting his head from side to side in search of his friend. Kurt craned himself an inch away from the boy, but in a flash Blaine had grabbed his wrists and held them down.

And how could this boy know how to do a defensive move like that? It had taken Kurt two run ins with other criminals to understand the simple mechanics of self defense. Kurt wondered momentarily how Blaine had gotten so strong…

The school, the large brick building behind them, was as dark as the night. There were no lights on, not even a quick flash of white, and Kurt was thankful. Maybe the police were not on their way? Maybe this Blaine's friend had _not_ called?

But where did that leave Santana? Caught, along with Kurt? He hoped she had followed his directions and had waited at the road for a few minutes. Perhaps she had gotten away.

Kurt glanced up at Blaine, at his narrowed eyes and fixated eyebrows. At his round lips set in determination and worry. At the lovely way he face was constructed, with subtly defined features. He marveled at the strange, curly hair atop his head. Short, black waves loose and hanging off his forehead.

As if sensing a pair of eyes on him, Blaine looked down and their eyes connected. Kurt refused to look away, as Blaine seemed to too, and for a long pause all the two did was stare into hazel and blue. Kurt grimaced, and closed his eyes.

"Are…are you ok?" Blaine asked. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

Kurt didn't open his eyes. If his wrists weren't bound together by Blaine's two hands, then he would rub his eyes in agitation, but for obvious reasons, he had no movement. "No," Kurt groaned, "you aren't. Though, if you're worried about hurting me, you could just get up and take a few steps back."

Blaine said, "No, no, I'm content here."

Kurt had a small resemblance of a plan: reach up with one of his legs, and kick the boy in the back. He could do that, right? Cheerios practice, yoga and dancing had all brought him to be quite flexible, and he believed he could kick up.

Nimbly, Kurt took the boy by surprise as he lifted his leg up and kneed the boy _hard_ in the back. The boy faltered, and almost fell off, but did not. Kurt had slithered away a foot, if that, but once again he was caught - but his wrists were free.

Stretching his arm and molding it into a fist, Kurt slammed his hand into the boy's chest, unable to hit his face at the particular angle, and Kurt could _feel_ the breath leaving Blaine.

Kurt leapt to his feet, but the boy had recovered quickly, and had grabbed onto Kurt's hand, dragging him towards him. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" he hissed, angry now. His eyes were burning with aflame honey, and his mouth was taut with fury.

"I'm not in search of you everywhere I go," Kurt snarled, trying to wrench his hand away, "It's purely a series of coincidences that we always seem to cross paths."

"Next time you see me, then," Blaine continued, eyes on fire, "leave."

"It's a small town, _preppie." _Kurt grinned. "Why, I wouldn't be all that surprised if we saw each once again, after this."

"You're implying that you'll get away."

"Oh, this isn't the movies. Sometimes the bad guy _does_ get away," Kurt just about sneered. Blaine cocked his head to the side.

"At this rate, if you _do_ manage to get away, you aren't going to get very far." Blaine did not hesitate to continue. Kurt could not hold the inching of a smile off his lips, because if he was being truthful to himself, Blaine had a point. But quickly, once the inkling of a smile had reached his mouth, he forced it back into a frown.

"Who are you?" Blaine asked, curious - not at all frightened anymore, and for a shameless reason, it gave Kurt a disconcerted feeling. It seemed this boy asked Kurt this question every time they came into contact, which was, unfortunately, often.

"The point of my identity being hidden is for a civilian like you not to know," Kurt snapped.

"It's just that you seem kind of familiar," Blaine replied, his voice taking on a cautious, almost accusatory, tone.

"Obviously," Kurt retorted, "this is like the fourth time we've seen each other." He tried, unsuccessfully once more, to get his hand out of the boy's grasp. It always seemed down to this: the one moment of close contact, the other holding them down with all the strength they possessed, the looks of fury, fear and overconfident smirks. As Santana had said earlier, Kurt really did love the excitement and danger, though all he felt with this boy was the excitement and faint arousal.

The boy managed to snake his leg around one of Kurt's, holding him in place and giving him shockwaves of discomfort and heart thumps of zeal, of which he was not proud.

"You know that's not what I meant," the boy responded, sighing, and tightening his hold on Kurt's arm and leg.

"Maybe I just have one of those faces," Kurt sniffed, frowning and counting the number of times he'd said that in his head. The boy shook his head.

"No," the boy thought for a moment, leaving Kurt a moment to try and unravel his legs from the boy's hold.

"Not to be rude, or anything," Kurt interrupted Blaine's thinking, "but I don't really want to partake in civil conversation with someone who's going to call the cops on me."

"How old are you?" Blaine asked, completely disregarding Kurt's words.

"None of your damn business."

"Because you look the same age as me, right? You can't be out of high school yet…" Blaine murmured to himself, almost forgetting Kurt was there.

A minute passed. Kurt struggled to get himself away from Blaine's insistent lock and pressure on both his arm and leg, but Blaine only held on stronger. Kurt wanted to know _exactly_ where Blaine had learned these protective techniques.

Santana had to be long gone - she _had_ to be! But, a nagging part of Kurt's brain admonished, if she had gotten away, where had the other boy, Blaine's friend, gotten to? Kurt gulped faintly, hoping his 'partner in crime' had gotten away. She was in a hell more of trouble than Kurt was, if by the stories she'd tell him at night were any indication.

He was distressed to remember that he had never asked Santana about the happenings back in Lima. He knew of the small things, like how Santana had gotten to him in the first place, but not of Mercedes and Rachel, and how they were doing, and if Rachel was still as bent on New York as he was, or if Mercedes had _finally_ asked out that football player she had her eyes on. Sue, he knew, had taken over the Glee club, but what had happened to Mr. Schuester? Was he fired, or worse, subjected to something under Sue's newfound power? What went on in his former coach's head, he never knew.

What had happened to his house? Was it still under the Hummel name, even if no one was living there? Kurt knew nothing about the such, how banks could take away your home and car, but he knew _something_ had probably happened to it.

How…how was his father?

"Show Choir!" Blaine exclaimed, and Kurt jumped from his thoughts, giving him a pointed look. "You were in your school's Glee club, weren't you?"

Kurt panicked, jerking through Blaine's strong hold on him in efforts to get away, to stop time. He stuttered, realizing his actions were futile.

"I'll make a deal with you," he said nervously, "If you _never_ tell anyone who I am, I'll give you all your money back."

Blaine looked taken aback at Kurt's words. "W-What?"

"You heard me," Kurt glanced nervously towards him, "If you never tell anyone I'm the thief, then I will give you every last penny of your money back to you."

Blaine said nothing.

"Please?" Kurt all but begged. A moment of silence passed between them, and Blaine took over Kurt's face. He looked vulnerable, alone, in desperate need of _someone_ to look after him. Blaine knew this boy could be dangerous, but he was no older than Blaine, maybe Blaine was even older, and he felt nothing but sadness and pity for the once carefree, singing boy he briefly remembered seeing at their competitions. He wondered what had happened, and he decided he must know.

"I - okay," Blaine finally said, loosening his hold on Kurt, but not enough for him to get away without trading in Blaine's rightful money.

Kurt used his now two free hands to retrieve a considerable amount of money from his right boot. He flipped through it, his hands trembling, watching Blaine from under his eyelashes. He seemed in slight awe at the sight of all the money, but kept it in subtle check. "How much do I owe you, hundred and fifty?" Kurt asked softly, pausing to look at him properly.

"Yeah, one hundred and sixty-six," Blaine corrected, taking the money when Kurt held it out. Kurt's hand was left poised in the air moments after Blaine had reclaimed his money. He lowered it.

"Thanks," Blaine said ineptly, uncomfortably. Kurt nodded solemnly, and motioned for Blaine to release his hold on him. Blaine didn't comply. Instead, he spoke. "How did you become a thief when not only a year ago, you were in the school's Glee club?"

Kurt shook his head. "I don't have to answer any of your questions."

Blaine stiffened. "Yes, you do. I could call the police and have you arrested at any given moment."

Kurt flinched, and succumbed to answering Blaine's inquisition. "Being in Glee club does not mean you are happy, or for lack of better terms, _gleeful."_

Blaine's lips fell open in confusion, and Kurt looked away. In the distance, sirens blared and sang, and Kurt recoiled at the sound. "Let go of me! I gave you your money!" he cried out, becoming nervous.

Blaine didn't know why the words he was thinking spilled from his mouth, but he found himself not regretting them in the slightest, although it was dangerous and stupid - even more so than Jeff giving his hamster it's own swimming pool of a toilet.

"I want to meet you again," Blaine said, "so we can talk."

"Why would I want to meet you?" Kurt hissed, curling around in Blaine's hold in desperation.

"Because I want to know more about you!" he said quietly, "I won't call the police on you, or have them arrest you. Please."

"I don't trust you," Kurt responded, getting his body looser from Blaine's grasp.

"One meeting, just one," Blaine bargained, then added, "I could call the cops at any time. No offense, but you don't really have a say in the matter."

Kurt huffed, and visibly shrank in Blaine's arms when he realized he was being blackmailed. Against his better judgment, and the judgment of every rational persons, hastily, he said, "Only one?"

Blaine nodded.

Kurt grimaced and looked away, listening for the call of the sirens. If this one meeting guaranteed safety from the police, at least for a little while, he'd take it. But the risk it was imposing! He knew not to trust Blaine, but he looked so sincere, so trustworthy - Kurt knew better than to believe such things, but he couldn't help himself.

Deep down, Kurt shoved an insistent thought of how he secretly wanted to be discovered, wanted to be understood by someone other than Santana.

"Why, though? Why do you want to meet me?" Kurt wondered aloud softly.

"Truthfully?" Blaine asked. Kurt nodded. "You fascinate me, I suppose. I feel myself wanting to know more about you, even though I know I shouldn't."

Kurt paused. "Come here," he muttered at last, unable to bring himself to regret his decision, "I'll be there tomorrow at eleven." Quickly, he protruded a pen from one of the bags. He held Blaine's hand while he scribbled a name upon it.

"Please, you can't tell anyone. I _need_ this," Kurt pleaded, a moment of susceptibility, before he took on a hard edge. "I'll be watching in case you bring in someone else or have a camera on you. If you do, then I'll be sure to visit your parents more often."

Blaine let go of Kurt, and soon Kurt was dashing away with his possessions in tow. Blaine watched as Kurt went flying down the green, his body a blur. He skidded onto the road, and with one last look back to Blaine, Kurt was gone.

Blaine closed his eyes, looking down, and let a brief wave of dizziness overcome him.

Why did he feel so enthralled with this boy?


	8. Not A Hero

**A/N What a **_**MAGNIFICENT **_**episode. **

_**That Was The Past  
><strong>_

"You did _what?" _Santana screeched, launching a handful of dirt at him. Kurt recoiled back, narrowly dodging the assault. "I can't believe this!"

Kurt spun, thinning his eyes and glaring. Around them, nothing could be heard except the faint chirp of birds. The sky was the sickening mixture of light and dark, as the sun seemed to have not yet made up it's mind to rise, leaving the playground Santana and Kurt were on to be expanded in a vile shade of purple.

Santana was fuming, swinging herself angrily a swing and looking towards her feet. Kurt stood before her, hands on his hips.

The time was five thirty. The two had slept beneath the slide after they were almost caught by the police as well as, Kurt hated to admit, Blaine. Santana had recalled her story to him, about how she had sung Valerie until the song was over, and by that time, she had escaped the pursuit of the other boy. She had wondered where he was, after he had not shown himself to the road after five minutes, but had stayed back to look for him. Luckily, Kurt had managed to reach her before the cops did, and the two had ran.

Santana had made many a joke at Kurt's expense; "I come to you for help in stealing, but it always seems that _you_ get yourself in a hell of a lot more trouble than I do. And with the same damn boy!"

When Kurt had woken up, he had nudged Santana awake and told his story. He had to go and meet this boy _here_, in this exact park, in a few hours. Santana, to say in the least, was not very pleased.

"Satan," Kurt crooned, "I know how to take care of myself. Besides, if you don't want the police to find us, then you had better keep your mouth shut and let me do this."

"It doesn't make any sense, though!" Santana exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air dramatically and shaking her head. "Why would _he_ want to meet _you?"_

Kurt knitted his eyebrows together, and cocked his head to the side. "Oh, how you flatter me," he muttered, taking a swing next to her's, swaying his feet.

"That's not what I meant." Santana frowned. "What's his name…Blaine? Yeah, Blaine. We've stolen from him more than once, and ran into him even more than that. He knows you're a crook, and he knows you could be dangerous, so why does he want to meet you?"

Kurt mulled it over once more, and said nothing. He had plenty of time to think about that, the hours he spent worrying about it before he had finally fell asleep on the harsh woodchips were long and tedious, but he hadn't brought up a conclusion in that entire spell. He hadn't a clue why Blaine was so intent on seeing him again. Kurt had an inkling suspicion that Blaine really just wanted information on him, so he could turn him in - be a hero to the community, his family and his friends. And surely he wanted to enact some sort of revenge of Kurt for stealing from him in the first place?

It did not make an ounce of sense, both Blaine's _request_ and Kurt's _affirmation_. Kurt was sure he could have wormed his way out of a situation like that, but he was also sure that if given the chance again, he would choose the same answer.

It was unsettling.

"I'm worried," Kurt admitted at last. Santana scrutinized him above her fingernail inspection. She smirked, looking away.

"Yeah, you should be," she muttered, and offered nothing more than that. The sun above them finally decided to rouse itself awake, and the park was slowly cascaded by light. Idly, Kurt wondered what day it was, but did not check his phone. His hands seemed frozen on the chains of the swing. He lowered his head.

"If I didn't know any better," Santana started, "I'd say you had a little crush on this Blaine."

Kurt's head shot up, as well as his attention, and he regarded her coolly, despite his exterior. "I haven't a clue what you're on about."

"Oh, don't play dumb, Porcelain. You and I both know you could have gotten away easily enough from Blaine if you really wanted to."

Kurt faltered. He glanced towards her, biting his lip briefly before grimacing. Santana had a point, a very valid point Kurt had previously thought through, and he had nothing to say to it. He's been in tougher fights and had gotten away without much of a scratch or a dent in his time. But all of sudden, this Blaine continues to make appearances, complicating everything Kurt is used to and comfortable with.

Kurt shivered, but the temperature was not the hindrance. "Don't be preposterous, Satan," he mumbled faintly, "The relationship I have with him is purely money based."

Santana wasn't convinced. And to be honest, neither was Kurt, but it wasn't as if he would ever admit it. Kurt gazed towards the sky, at the warm orange radiating off the dull gray. Indolently, he swung back and forth, gaining momentum before slowing back down again to a snail's pace.

When the sun rose higher, and the light flowed more determinedly over the land, Kurt lifted himself to his feet, taking Santana's hand and helping her up as well. The time was barely even six in the morning, but the heavier the depth of the sunlight, the greater chance they had of being recognized. Santana regarded him with a blank look. "I think I saw an old shed over there," she pointed across the park's field. "Shitty, falling apart. We can stay there for now."

Kurt nodded noncommittally, and followed his friend towards the faded, gray storage shed.

Purely money based, purely money based, _purely money based_, Kurt chanted in his head.

* * *

><p>"Now, let me just finish your hair…" Santana bit her lip, and ran her fingers through Kurt's chestnut strands, much to the annoyance of Kurt himself. He scowled, hating the feel of his perfectly styled hair being tousled about; even when he lived in the worst of conditions, his hair was always flawlessly pulled off. "Good," she said when she was finished, "Now any onlookers won't recognize you."<p>

"Santana," Kurt sighed, looking at himself in the dim reflecting of a window, "I still look the same, except for my hair and eyes." His hair was pulled forward, fashioning a long bang effect. His eyes, however, were rather different. Santana found that if eyes were applied with the right amount of makeup, they could create an illusion of differing in color. With the bangs flipping over his cheeks, Kurt's face become longer - certainly unrecognizable at a first look.

"Doesn't matter. It's not like anyone'll spare you a second glance."

Kurt glowered, before Santana shook her head slowly and told him to calm down. " I don't mean it, Porcelain. Just tryin' to get you to relax," she said, "Oh, and it's nearly eleven. Go out the door, sneak around back and take a couple laps so he doesn't see where you came from."

He nodded. "Don't go anywhere," Kurt advised, taking a step out of the shed, looking back, "Got that?"

Santana waved him off, frowning. "God, you'd think I was a nine year old."

"With your level of maturity and self sensibility, you really aren't a far cry off," Kurt muttered, throwing her a challenging look. "I'll be back soon, I hope. Oh, and don't make a lot of noise."

"I got it." Santana rolled her eyes, gesturing towards him to leave the shack. Kurt acquiesced, almost to himself, and soon he was being covered in harsh light. "Be careful," Santana added from inside the shed, "And remember to use protection. I'm not helping you with any baby-" Rolling his eyes, Kurt slammed the door. Taking a deep breath, he looked around, noticing with relief the minimal amount of people. He knocked on the door, telling Santana quietly to lock it, and then he was off.

He was at a loss of what to do with himself. The time was quickly approaching eleven, and Kurt discovered himself ready to retreat back to the shed. But what good would that do for him and Santana? Blaine had his physique and facial features in his memory, and Kurt knew he would jump at any chance to call the police on him.

Just get it over with, he thought to himself, remember New York. If you don't follow through, the closest you'll get is a jail cell in Manhattan.

Absentmindedly, Kurt found himself thinking of his father; there wasn't a cause and effect proceeding, but simply an unsystematic thought process. He often wondered what life would be like if his father had not had a heart attack, and through the thoughts swirling in his head, he knew it was simply one of those times.

Kurt walked slowly around the field, pausing only to stop and fiddle with his hands, killing time. He turned into the playground, where he had previously sat with Santana that very morning, and climbed his way to the top of the structure. He lowered himself slowly down onto the top of the slide.

He saw a dark car pull up in the corner of the parking lot before him. Kurt tried to remain inconspicuous, whether it be out of habit or whatever else he did not know, and he watched as a figure got out of the car and looked around. He waited for Blaine to come to him, not vice versa.

Blaine wandered with hands in his pockets towards him, though not truly _seeing_ him. When Blaine stopped near him, his breath blowing out into the startlingly sharp air, Kurt stood and cleared his throat. "Let's get this over with," he said monotonously. Blaine looked up, alarmed, and Kurt flipped himself over the slide walls to land with poise next to him.

"Now, I know I _fascinate_ you, and really, I don't blame you," Kurt started, crossing his arms across his chest, "Yet, I also know you would leap at the opportunity to turn me in, so we'll keep this short."

Blaine angled his head, but said nothing and seemed to disregard Kurt's avowal. He lead the way to a small picnic table near the outskirts of the sand box, sitting on one side and leaving Kurt to sit on the opposite.

"You are the one blackmailing me, so why don't you start out by telling me exactly why we are meeting?" Kurt asked, straightening his back, placing his hands on the table.

"You said you were in your school's show choir…" Blaine began cautiously, "I'm in glee club, as well, and it intrigues me how someone can _not_ be happy when in it."

Kurt looked at him in disbelief; his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him, and he shook his head. "You are so naïve," he muttered, pinching his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "And, again, I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you."

"Because this is such a displeasure for you," Blaine said, and Kurt shot him a pointed look, nodding, "I only have three questions."

Kurt brightened appreciably, clasping his hands on the table once more. "Number one," he demanded.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"What's your name?"

Kurt glared, eyes unwavering. "Undetermined," he told Blaine, daring him to point out his improper answer. Blaine's face took on a bemused guise, before he seemed to let it go. He fiddled with the hem of his jacket, becoming mute, and Kurt became impatient. "Last question, preppie!" he snapped, drumming his fingers on the table restlessly, "Just spit it out."

Blaine looked up, rolled his eyes. "Well, all right," he sighed with an agitated air, though Kurt could sense he was uncomfortable. He nearly grinned at the prospect. "Final question, then. I want to know how you came to a life of crime."

"You make it sound so melodramatic," Kurt murmured, "And we aren't living in the world of CSI. I didn't wake up one morning and say to myself, 'I've got nothing to do today. Maybe I'll go meddle with the law.'."

Blaine opened his mouth to say something, but Kurt cut him off. "You were taught to never steal from other's. However, what you were _not_ taught is that when you have nothing left, even doing the most immoral of actions can seem right."

An overwrought silence settled between, and Kurt felt a rush of emotions wash over him. He couldn't let this happen; he could not become so open with a boy he had just met, _and_ who was blackmailing him, motives unknown - he could not become so open with _himself._

A strong wave of fatigue took him by surprise.

"If you don't mind my asking," Blaine inquired, "How long have you been a crook?"

Kurt faltered. "That's, uh, that's four questions," he defended, feeling uncharacteristically tired, weak, powerless, "And I agreed to three."

He stood, letting his arms ascend to his chest. Overhead, a plane increased it's speed and flew away. Kurt imagined the passengers above him were heading someplace better, somewhere he hoped to get to. Right now, though, any sort of effort seemed feeble. "It's time for me to make my leave," Kurt told Blaine, "Good day; I hope to never see you again."

"And if I do?"

Kurt had his back to Blaine then, and he felt himself turn around slowly, daringly, narrowing his eyes towards the boy at contact. Blaine was standing, hands behind his back charmingly, his face unreadable. There was no indication that Blaine had even said anything at all, but Kurt knew better. He was too familiar with Blaine's voice to even think otherwise. "What did you say?" he growled in stunned rasps.

"What if I want to meet you again?" Blaine spelled out, and his mouth was moving but Kurt was shaken and shocked and too _damn_ _enraged_ to form a logical retaliation. With his growing weariness, Kurt knew this exhaustion would only continue throughout any expanse of time - it would become ceaseless just as Blaine seemed to want it to. He became aware of how trapped he really was.

"What is this to you?" Kurt snarled, enduring near physical pain, "I don't care if you want to meet again! It's not going to happen! You need to listen carefully," he paused, fixing Blaine with a glare, "I know exactly what you are doing. Gathering information about me so you can turn me in? You're _not_ a hero, Blaine Anderson."

Blaine looked only a little surprised at Kurt's recognition of his name. He said, "Stop being so paranoid. If I wanted to give you over to the police, I would have done so already."

Kurt shook his head.

"All I want to do is become friends! What's so wrong with that?" Blaine asked in exasperation.

"Friends?" Kurt barked, laughing. "I don't need a friend right now, especially one who could call the cops on me if they should please it."

"Who's that girl that helped you rob my house the second time?" Blaine pointed out, "She's your friend!"

"Yes, and she's also a thief, so in a way, I can trust her. You, not so much," Kurt replied, unconsciously moving closer. "You have your prep school friends, and I have my criminal friends, so there's no need for us to become acquaintances."

Kurt could feel his confidence dithering. One part of him screamed at him to run, just run away and avoid this boy if they ever came into sights again; but another part of him, an ashamedly bigger part, wanted nothing more than to accept Blaine's request. If he was being truthful to himself, then he would admit that he was lonely, desperate for civilized interaction with someone other than an accomplice. Over the past months, he had either spoken with Santana or had kept to himself. He craved communication and camaraderie.

"I won't blackmail you anymore," Blaine said, interrupting Kurt's thoughts, "It's against what's right. And I can hear what you're saying, that you don't want to become friends, but the look in your eyes tell me different."

"Tomorrow," Blaine continued, "same time, same place. Come if you accept my proposal, okay?"

Kurt nodded, because there was not much left he could do. Blaine held out his hand expectantly, and Kurt raised his own to meet Blaine's. They held each other's hands firmly, shaking once, twice, three times too many before letting go. Blaine tilted his head towards Kurt, and Kurt turned swiftly on his heel and walked away. He could feel Blaine's lingering eyes on his back.

He already knew what his decision would be, and he didn't regret it, though on some level, he wished he did.


	9. How Strange And Spectacular

**A/N**** Enjoy!**

_**That Was The Past  
><strong>_

Kurt crept along a steep stone wall, Santana in tow. Although she was fuming, and was refusing to talk to him, she could not stop herself from coming with him on another break in. The house was not far away, not far away from their nomadic home in the shed, not far away from the park Kurt was to meet Blaine the next day.

And, yes, he was going to meet Blaine once more. He had made his decision the moment he had turned away from Blaine and walked away; it was a foolish idea, for sure, but Kurt didn't care. His life was _full_ of idiotic choices and misguided attempts at happiness, so why not? He might just find a friend in this Blaine Anderson.

Kurt picked at the lock, and let Santana slide through the open door first. This trip was mainly for her, anyhow.

She was gone in a flash, disappearing through the unfamiliar house. Kurt felt his legs wander about the first level carelessly, only stopping to shuffle through scattered papers on a coffee table. Smiling to himself, he picked out a few ones and thought about how foolhardy people these days could be - just leaving money out without proper precautions. At least, he hoped there was no security cameras hidden around. He was _very_ careful about that sort of stuff; he checked a house beforehand, asking here and there for sources and digging himself into near detective situations.

The house was quiet, a reason to be reassured _and_ a reason to be apprehensive. Kurt sought out Santana, who had riffled through cabinets of china and silverware. Her bag was full with clanking instruments. Kurt nodded to her, and ushered her to the door, making sure to lock it. Soon the two were heading off down the street, no sound other than the clatter of Santana's treasure.

"I know you're angry," Kurt whispered to the dark, "but I know how to take care of myself. I've done it for months."

Santana scoffed, suspending her bag higher across her back. "You're going to get us both caught."

"Santana," Kurt sighed, keeping his eyes trained in front of him, "I know what I'm doing. If I had the _slightest_ inkling the situation wasn't safe, then I wouldn't have accepted." He neglected to tell her he hadn't met with Blaine and agreed yet; he knew Santana well enough to know if he did, she would spend the time up to the event talking him out of it, and maybe even resorting to physical disincentives.

"Why, though? Am I not enough company?" Santana raised, perking an eyebrow provokingly. Kurt steadied her with a long look.

"I enjoy your company, Santana, but I just need _more,_" Kurt explained, "I'm sure you get tired of me, and crave the presence of someone else. Blaine seems honest enough, and there's just something about him that appeals to me…"

She paused. "You want to have sex with him." She was blatant, unashamed. Kurt reeled, backtracking as quickly as he could manage.

"You…you're delusional," Kurt stuttered, face growing hot and hair pricking, "Not all of us are as sex-crazed as you, Satan."

"Oh, but you're getting there, sweetie." Santana grinned impishly, before seemingly remembering she should be angry. "As long as this budding 'friendship' with Blaine doesn't get us thrown in jail, and I don't catch you two going at it, I don't care. But, god Porcelain, remember you can't trust _everyone_."

Kurt smiled, looking down, attempting to cover his evident delight. Why he was so happy, he hadn't a clue. But things never made sense, so why should this?

The next morning rose simple and neat. Heat was beginning to become a permanent visitor each day, and Kurt couldn't be more pleased. Things were terrible when you were homeless and struggling to find warmth during the harsh winter months, Kurt knew from experience. He often found himself staying longer than necessary in people's home simply for the security and heat.

Peeking out a sliver in the doorway of the shed, Kurt checked his phone's clock and waited rather impatiently for time to speed towards eleven. Santana was crouched in the corner, doodling absently on the shed wall with a nearly run-down sharpie. Kurt reminded her relentlessly to never give any indication that it was them who were staying here. No names, no recognizable handwriting, no references to things previously done. Santana drew two hands clutching each other. Kurt saw it to be charming.

_11:04._

Kurt gasped and shoved his phone into his back pocket, twirling around the small room for a jacket, exclaiming to Santana, "I'm late! It's eleven oh'four!"

"By like two minutes, Porcelain. Calm yourself," Santana soothed, rolling her lovely brown eyes. "You'll be with your boy toy in a matter of moments." She sounded resentful, almost angry. Kurt was too preoccupied with his own hurry and haste to hear.

"Be back soon, don't leave the building, don't make noise, and -" Kurt listed off, opening the door as discreetly as he could, aware of possible onlookers.

"Go." Santana ordered, returning to her artwork. Kurt glanced at her before taking off out of the building, grateful for the unsurprising lack of pedestrians. Kurt quickly took a lap, making sure to hide his and Santana's hideout.

The playground was deserted. He was appreciative.

For a fleeting moment, as Kurt looked around the parking lot, he thought Blaine would not show and this was all a rouse to call the police to this spot. Consciously, Kurt took a step back towards his makeshift home, his boot hitting the unwarned woodchips with a snap.

He told himself to take a deep breath, and as Santana said, to calm himself. But he was paranoid by instinct; in a life like he was in, it could cost you everything _not_ to be.

Still, calming breaths did not deter him from his mistrustful state.

Kurt felt the hairs stick up on the back of his neck, and he stiffened, sensing around for another being. Sure enough, when he turned around quickly -

"You came," Blaine said in an astonished voice, eyebrows raised and a sweet smile upon his lips. Kurt nodded, locking his arms around his chest and looking over his shoulder instinctively.

"I did. And, uh," Kurt replied, flicking his head to get hair out of his eyes, "let's not make a bigger deal out of it than it really is."

Blaine gave his assent, though he watched Kurt with a guarded eye. Kurt pretended not to notice.

For a moment, the two stood around awkwardly, not knowing what to do or how to act or what to _say_ to move their newfound 'friendship' forward. Kurt straightened himself, tense, whereas Blaine seemed to slouch in confusion and obvious anticipation.

Blaine broke the silence, "Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?"

Kurt shook his head. "No," he said firmly, holding up a hand, "No, I can't. Too many people."

Blaine raised his head, squinted his eyes as if he was reprimanding himself for suggesting such an idea. Kurt pursed his lips and said, "Our options may be limited, Blaine Anderson. I suppose that's to be expected when you become friends with a criminal."

"If you're trying to scare me off, it's not going to work." Blaine sniffed, looking Kurt in the eyes unwaveringly. Kurt shook his head no.

"It's not that," he defended, "I'm simply giving you fair warning."

"It's appreciated," Blaine responded, smiling bitterly. "But snipping at each other like this will get us nowhere. Would you like to sit and talk, maybe?"

Kurt found an unexpected smile form on his lips. He wiped it away slowly, wondering why it had appeared in the first place. "Sure. Let's go somewhere else, though. I'm sure my friend is watching, though I told her not to."

Blaine hid a grin, and started walking. "The one who was with you the second time you stole from my house?" His voice was half teasing, half irate. Kurt tilted his head to the side, processing the strange mixture of emotions.

"The very same." Kurt followed in step with Blaine. He said nothing more, hoping the subject would drop. "And don't try to guilt me into apologizing. It will not happen."

"I wasn't trying to," Blaine said, shooting Kurt an inquisitive look as they passed onto a wooded trail. "I realize that sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do." He smiled.

"Oh, you're only saying that because I told you that yesterday," Kurt scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"No, well, maybe." Blaine squeezed his lips together and thought. "You _did_ tell me that yesterday, and I suppose it stuck."

Kurt said, "It's nice to see my words have such an impact on you."

Blaine didn't respond. He merely shrugged noncommittally, and seemed to smile to himself. Kurt narrowed his eyes, but did not probe him for answers. Like Blaine, Kurt was fine with being silent.

The two turned with the path and headed into an area guarded by trees. To himself, Kurt accounts the many times he's already been in this forest. One, he had used the trees as a canopy against the chilling rain when he first ran away from 'home'. Two, he had outran two other criminals who were out to get the money they heard Kurt had. And three, he used to go on nature walks with his father here when he was small.

Blaine took notice to the indignant expressions on Kurt's face and his bitter resolution to not talk. "Are you all right? I know this is weird, it's a little odd for me too, but-"

"No, no. I'm fine." Kurt nodded and offered Blaine an assuring smile. "I just got caught up in my thoughts, is all."

Blaine looked him over. "If you say so," he finally said, but he remained unconvinced. Kurt took no notice. "So, tell me about yourself."

"Ah, but what is there to say that you don't already know?" Kurt pointed out, slyly shooting Blaine a hidden smile.

"Well, I know you used to be in a glee club, and you're seventeen. You haven't told me your name, but you know mine…" Blaine said, and Kurt nodded, "And that something forced you out of your other life to come to this one."

"I haven't told you that!" Kurt stabbed the air, indignant. Blaine tilted his head.

"I inferred."

"Oh, whatever," Kurt snarled, a wall building itself up over the once relaxed land, "In any case, you needn't know anything more than that."

"But I do." Blaine shifted his hands to his pocket. "Let's start with your name, because you know mine. How, I do not know."

"I _inferred."_ Kurt emphasized, and Blaine chortled lightly, shaking his head good-naturedly. Kurt felt a rush of wariness rush through him. "But it wasn't very difficult. Your friends were practically chanting it a while back, when you saw me in the park -"

"I remember that!" Blaine exclaimed, and Kurt's head shot up in amusement and surprise. He shot Blaine a strange look. "That was quite a bit of time ago…"

"Yeah, yeah, it was."

"But we're getting off track." Blaine stepped on a large stick, breaking it into thirds with a satisfying crunch, Kurt kicked a rock with the toe of his boot, pursing his lips at the state of the fabric. He ought to get a new pair; these were simply falling apart. "I could guess at your name?"

"Oh, yeah?" Kurt challenged, a daring smile lighting up his face - a real smile, devoid of sneers and snide. "I'd like to see you try."

"Okay," Blaine said, rubbing his hands together mischievously. "Here are the rules…"

"Rules?" Kurt interrupted. "You never said anything about that!"

Blaine grinned, a large, bright grin that exposed his white teeth. His eyes crinkled in joy. "I can't go through every male name known to existence!" he said, "Rule number one - you have to tell me what it starts with."

"Fine." Kurt flicked hair out of his eyes, looking towards Blaine. "It starts with 'K'."

Blaine thought for a moment. After a small length of silence, one that Kurt found rather amusing, Blaine finally spoke, "Keith."

Kurt flinched back, his face taking on a revolted persona. "God, do I _look_ like a Keith?"

Blaine signaled his answer, a shaking of the head 'no', and guessed once more. "Kyle."

"Na-na," Kurt smirked, unexpectedly enjoying himself.

"Kevin."

"Would you like another clue?" Kurt asked in delight, unable to conjure up a memory where he was this happy in his current situation. Looking to Blaine, Kurt took in his black sweater with a tightly wound red scarf. His hair was smoothed to his head, the curls still prominent and noticeable. His shoes took sharp snaps against the ground, though he seemed completely comfortable and stress-free. His eyes were the same warm, honey color he remembered.

Kurt glanced down towards his tightly clasped hands, shaking and shuddering. It was not cold.

His heart was pounding a million miles a minute, and he felt his breaths flow through him like rolls of thunder.

What was happening?

"Okay, okay," Blaine said, holding his hands up in defense, "Another clue."

Kurt shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "T-Think Sound of Music."

"Oh, it's been a while…" Blaine muttered, "But…uh, Kir- no, Kurt!"

Kurt expected himself to be anxious, even more nervous when Blaine found out his name. Why, he had every right to! With his first name in memory, it wouldn't take much for Blaine to do an ounce of research to find his last name on the internet, and them boom! He's in a juvenile delinquent center because Blaine turned him in.

But surprisingly, Kurt had no regrets. If anything, he felt better knowing someone outside his narrow world of crooks and thieves could identify him. Camaraderie.

"Yeah," Kurt affirmed, "It's Kurt."

"Well then," Blaine said, holding out a hand, "It's nice to meet you Kurt."

"You too, Blaine," Kurt murmured, shaking Blaine's hand for the second time and feeling a rush of warmth fly through him for the _second time_. Blaine smiled, and Kurt found himself returning it.

"What would you like to do now?" Blaine asked as they turned onto a wide sidewalk. Kurt looked around anxiously, issuing a small sigh of relief at the lack of people. "I still would like a cup of coffee. Maybe I could order you one while you wait outside or…?"

Kurt took a step in front of him and turned to look down the streets. He contemplated, "Well, I suppose that'll work. Let's head on over then."

Blaine nodded and beckoned for Kurt to follow him. The sidewalks were chipped and cracked, and Kurt's shoes caught in a pothole more than once. When he stumbled, Blaine reached out and grasped his elbow, helping him regain his balance. On more than one occasion, Kurt had to remind himself that he did not trust Blaine, and should not be blushing to the tip of his nose. He sped up his pace, scolding himself and worrying his hands together behind his back.

"Here we are," Blaine announced. The two were a few measures away from a small building, eerily vacant though charming. Kurt gave his approval. "So, I'll just run in and get us coffee. What would you like?"

"Oh, I haven't had coffee in a while. Non-fat mocha?"

"Sure," Blaine said, and Kurt squatted to the ground, unzipping his left boot and pulling out a couple bills. He glanced up to Blaine, thumbing through the money.

"Do you know how much that will cost?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.

'It's all right." Blaine smiled. "I can pay."

Kurt straightened himself, leaving the money in his boot. "Blaine. You know I have more than enough money."

"Yeah, I know." His eyes met Kurt's, but Kurt was unable to get a proper word in before Blaine was heading towards the front door, ringing the bell and disappearing. Kurt pursed his lips and walked over to the wall behind the collinear building, zipping up his boot and securing his money.

Soon, Blaine returned with his hands holding two coffee cups and two sugar packets between his lips. Kurt shook his head in amusement and took the offered drink. He leaned against the wall and watched as Blaine occupied himself with pouring the sugar into his coffee.

"It must bite not being able to go out in public places," Blaine said, crinkling the empty packet and stuffing it in his pocket. Kurt shrugged.

"I don't know how to explain it," Kurt sighed, sloshing his drink around, "I'm heavily inclined to say that it's nothing - that it doesn't matter anymore, because I should have gotten used to it by now."

Blaine tilted his head, but said nothing. He nodded once, encouraging Kurt lightly to go on.

"It really wouldn't be that big of a deal to go out every now and then. You'd think your face wouldn't be recognized this far from home."

"I don't know if this is rude but if you're a criminal, don't you think you would be known all over the state?"

Kurt took a long sip of his coffee. It was delicious, the taste even more powerful as he hadn't had any coffee for a while. The building they were leaning on was full of grime and dust, and Kurt craned his head to the opposite side to read the graffiti idly as he bought himself time. In the distance, a mother and her daughter were eating a scone together as they shopped. Overhead, clouds were beginning to come together. Next to him, Blaine waited for an answer, his eyes gently roaming over his face, gauging his expression.

"To be honest, Blaine," Kurt started, eyes settling into Blaine's, "people don't know me as a criminal. I haven't been identified."

Blaine's lips parted in confusion. Kurt continued, a feeling of bitter shame taking him over, "They…they know me as that kid who ran away from his foster family - from his half-dead father."

Blaine lowered his drink. His eyes mingled with Kurt's, trying to convey the sentiments and words he could not say aloud. Kurt measured Blaine's reaction.

"But this entire thieving thing…"

"I need to support myself somehow," Kurt said, looking down, "It's not the most desirable way, but it's keeping me alive. It'll get me out of here."

"I don't know what to say, Kurt," Blaine murmured.

"Don't say anything. It's not important; the past is the past, and the present and future is all we need to think about right now." Kurt nodded, a grim smile working it's way to Kurt's lips. Blaine looked like he wanted to object, but Kurt shook his head.

"Let's just finish our coffee, okay? It's a bit past noon and I'm exhausted. I was up late last night, you know?" Kurt brought the container to his lips and downed the remains. Blaine did the same.

The two discarded their cups in a near waste bin, and Kurt turned to bid Blaine goodbye. Blaine interrupted. "Do you have a phone?"

"I do," Kurt replied cautiously. Blaine took out his, scrolling through it quickly.

"Would you like to exchange numbers?" he asked, and Kurt gave him a guarded look. Slowly, he nodded and recited his phone number. "I'll text you my number, then," he did just that, "and great! We're connected."

Kurt put his phone away, back into his jeans pocket. "Blaine, please. You have to promise me you won't share that number with _anyone._"

"I promise," Blaine smiled. "Who would I tell?"

Kurt scoffed, an angry glint firing up his eyes. "The police?"

Blaine shook his head. "If I did that, then I would be in trouble as well. Knowing a criminal for a length of time and not turning them in? We'd both be in a mess."

Kurt's lips formed a 'O'. He hadn't thought of that. Instantly, he felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Perhaps he _did_ have some sort of friend in this Blaine Anderson. He smiled affably.

The two set off back towards the park, the walk silent but comfortable - short, too. In no time, they were away from the coffeeshop and the canopy of trees and back at the parking lot, standing next to Blaine's small car. "I'll see you later?" Blaine asked, and gave nodded his affirmation.

"I'll see you later," he repeated. With a final wave, Blaine hopped in his car, and drove away. Turning on his heel, Kurt began the small trek back to his semi-permanent home. Santana was sure to go bat-shit crazy at Kurt's account, but Kurt knew _he_ was crazy as well to recognize a creating relationship between him and Blaine - whether it be friendship or not, he could not deny how strange and spectacular it felt to talk to Blaine.


	10. The Boy And The Thief

**A/N I really, really apologize for the lateness of this chapter! There were major problems with my laptop - viruses and all that jazz.**

_**That Was The Past  
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It had been one week since Kurt's meeting with Blaine, and really, that was it. Kurt felt a part of him crave more time with Blaine, and unlike the other times only half of him wanted something, Kurt was bent on making his wish a reality. The two had been texting, surprisingly often, and Santana was nearly ripping her hair to shreds in frustration.

"If you want to hang out some more, just ask him!" she would complain, "I'm tired of listening to you going on about how his friendship is 'special'."

It was, with that note, when Kurt texted Blaine his inquisition; the two made plans to meet up again later that evening.

Kurt had been planning to hit up another house that night, after the next door neighbor he and Santana had visited had resulted in Kurt's largest steal yet - four hundred dollars, but decided to postpone it. He was ashamed of how much he really wanted to see Blaine again.

Kurt was reluctant to admit he was beginning to like Blaine. In the beginning, Kurt detested the curly-haired boy for being too (unwillingly) involved in Kurt's life, but during all those coincidental run-ins, Kurt had begun to grow a liking towards Blaine's carefree but multifaceted personality. It was refreshing and enjoyable to spend time with someone who wasn't into crime like he was.

Kurt and Santana were lounging around their makeshift hideaway. The room was cramped, and during the day sweltering hot, but it was the best location they could find. Kurt longed for his old secrete 'apartment' back at the consignment store.

"Santana," Kurt said, standing, "I'm heading out again."

"To meet Blaine?" Santana grouched, rolling over onto her back and staring at the ceiling. Kurt cocked his head to the side, grabbing a jacket but staring at Santana as if she was going to explain her petulance without probing.

"If you want to go out, then go ahead." Kurt buttoned up the large buttons on his black military jacket. "I figured since I'm going out quite a bit, it wouldn't be fair to make you stay in. Just don't get us in trouble." Santana shook her head, rejecting the entire concept.

Kurt pursed his lips, scanning Santana over with a judging eye. "Then don't bitch at me." He said nothing more, only saluted her in farewell as he opened the door and left.

It was rather chilly out, and Kurt pulled his coat more securely around his body, hands shaking. A great gust of wind pushed through him, and Kurt struggled to keep his balance. Above head, clouds began to swirl together in a mesh of vivid and acidic shades of gray. Kurt snarled to himself, but trudged on. He only wished he had a pair of gloves - just _warm!, _they didn't have to be designer - as he had left his back at the consignment store. At least he had Santana's 'present', the black cap that was cheap but surprisingly comfortable and cozy, though he had left it back in the shed.

Only in Ohio could the weather be beautiful one day and horrendous the next. Kurt hoped Blaine would show, and not bail, but he couldn't place his reasons. _Obviously_ Kurt found a friend in Blaine, so _obviously_ he wanted him to show up - and that was the extent of it.

_Obviously_. Kurt shook his head.

The two, Blaine and Kurt, were to meet back at the play structure, like their first organized gathering. Idly, Kurt wondered if Blaine's house was far from here, and if the drive was long. He hadn't a clue where he was, as his phone didn't have Internet nor did it have GPS, and it was far too risky to look around town extensively or research his whereabouts at a Visitor's Center. He hoped Blaine's house wasn't too far away.

"Kurt!" someone called, and Kurt let the strong wind turn him, his hair bustling and swaying even in it's heavily styled state. He had taken a potent risk, and had invested in hairspray from a cheap hair salon. He had paid the measly seven dollars with a strained smile, and had nearly ran out of the store at the sight of a picture of him in a _Missing_ section of a newspaper.

"Kurt!" Blaine said, jogging towards Kurt with a hand raised, as if he was signaling a taxi. "Hey."

Kurt's brow furrowed. "Hey yourself," he said, and wrung his hands together, trying to gain friction. "I didn't know if you would show."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Kurt gestured to the weather, the obnoxiously bleak skies and the rough, man-handling wind. Blaine shrugged, adjusting the black wool hat on his head and tightening the scarf around his neck. "No, the weather isn't bothering me. I'm all cozy."

While Kurt tried not to make his displeasure known, a large gust of wind nearly knocked him over. He staggered, and the worn buttons on his military jacket fell open, revealing the slimness of the fabric, revealing the single shirt on Kurt's body. Blaine quirked an eyebrow.

"Only two layers in a temperature like this?" he asked, almost accusatively. Kurt glared, shucking the jacket securely over his frame once again, making a mental note to sew the buttons on more firmly later.

"It's not like I have access to the closet at GQ, Blaine," he snapped, crossing his arms.

Blaine took on a confused expression. "But with all the money you must have…"

Kurt interrupted, holding up an unclothed hand, "I told you last time! It's far too risky shopping in heavily populated stores. Social Services have made it very clear to everyone that _I_ am missing, and I've almost been caught on countless occasions. It's not happening again."

Blaine cocked his head to the side. "Well, all right," he said, "but here. You can take my scarf and we can find somewhere warmer to hang out."

Kurt wanted to feel the strength in a recoil, but found himself unable to spring away from this boy. He sighed, and outstretched his hand, snatching the prickly scarf and wrapping it around his own neck. Blaine smiled, though it was hidden under the tilt of his head. "Looks better on you than it does on me," he mumbled, and Kurt told the unwelcome butterflies in his stomach to settle down, _dammit!_

"Let's get out the cold." Kurt nodded to Blaine, but glanced around in a tussle of brief looks and resentment over his inability to stay in a public place. "If…there was somewhere to go. Any ideas?"

"There's always coffee!" Blaine offered. Kurt pinched his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger, contemplating. He smiled.

"I'll buy this time."

When they returned to the still abandoned park, thunder rolled - deep, but it went unheard. The two were, to say in the least, wrapped into every word and action of the other. Neither acknowledged the lightning as it rippled across the sky.

As they had done previously, Kurt and Blaine simply stood outside in seclusion while they drank their coffee and talked. Kurt often caught himself when he felt he was spilling something secret, and Blaine, on multiple occasions, had to bite his tongue from asking questions he knew Kurt didn't want to answer.

But that was all right.

Because that didn't limit them to other conversation, that of which came in laughs and stumbled sentences.

Blaine told him about Glee club, a subject Kurt was undeniably in-tuned with. Blaine knew this, of course, and never held back details when show choir came into their talks. Kurt found out how New Directions were doing, at least in competition (which wasn't exactly _good). _He had never competed against the Warblers, which was the Glee club where Blaine attended school, but he liked hearing about them.

Kurt spoke of his adventures in thieving - about how nearly every time he leaves his home unaccompanied, someone approaches him to ask if they knew him, about he prefers to not steal large amounts of money, as it would be too suspicious and alarming. The last story he told Blaine was regarding the night he left from his old life.

He was still telling it as rumbles echoed across the gray sky.

"I felt miserable," Kurt said, shoving his hands into his pockets, seeking warmth, "Every sound I heard, whether it be a squirrel or my own _footsteps_, frightened me out of my head. I wasn't ready for what I had to be.

"The first few nights, I skittered around my hideout. I was trying to convince myself that it was my own apartment, and I could do whatever I wanted, but the thought only offered a moment's worth of comfort. After a week of mulling in self pity and thought, I went out and hit up my first house."

A raindrop fell and splattered against Kurt's forehead. He looked up, raised his eyebrows, and wiped it off. "I suppose that's the end of my story."

Blaine nodded, eyes alert and mind obviously turning. Thunder crashed once more, and both jumped in alarm, seeming to gather their wits. Before he could respond, rain began to pour heavily, creating unsightly patterns on their clothing.

"Oh, crap!" Blaine exclaimed, raising his arms above his head. Kurt watched him in amusement; at this point, standing out in the rain did not affect him as much as it would have a year ago - he _did_ have that new can of hairspray that would fix his hair right up.

Kurt opened his mouth, but someone called over his unspoken words. "Ladylips!" a voice yelled over the splattering of rain, "Come over here! We got a situation!"

Kurt turned around quickly, seeing Santana standing in the doorway of the shed. He shrugged helplessly to Blaine, and went to see what Santana wanted. Blaine followed.

"What is it?" he asked upon approaching. He crossed his arms as he and Blaine hopped into the doorway. "Oh."

Water leaked in from the ceiling, piling into puddles and staining their belongings. Santana scurried around, trying to protect her stuff, pushing it into a corner. Kurt scampered to his possessions, saying to Blaine, "Hey, I'll text you later. This might take a while. Patching up the holes, I mean. See you later?"

Blaine's brow furrowed, and he didn't move. Instead, he raised a hand and waved it. "I can't just leave you two to deal with this."

"Oh, yes you can," Santana snapped, rolling her sleeves up to her elbows, "You just walk your ass out that door, Curly, and go wait desperately for Porcelain to call you at a later time. Right now, we just need to stay dry, and unless you have a lease on another hou-"

"But that's the thing," Blaine interrupted, looking at Kurt as the boy straightened himself, "I know there's a foreclosed building a few blocks away from my house. No one goes in there, because they all think it's haunted or something."

Santana scanned him over, crossing his arms and trying to stare him down. Kurt shrugged and continued to tidy his things into a bag away from the water. "We'd have to see the building first." was all he said.

Santana nodded, gestured to Kurt. "Yeah, yeah we would. I don't want to drown in this shitty place, so fine. You can show us."

Kurt knelt down to zip up his shoulder bag, concealing a grin. He and Blaine had spent only five or six hours together, of _voluntary _time, and Kurt still felt lingering, natural feelings of mistrust and nervousness in his friendship with Blaine, but the feelings of happiness and joy overrode the negative mind-sets.

"Okay, so whenever you're ready, we can go on over!" Blaine smiled gently, stripping off his wet hat. Kurt still wore his scarf, savoring the feel of wool against his neck.

Kurt said, "You can carry this." He tossed over one of their bags, and Blaine caught it. In a moment's time, the three were sprinting through the downpour.

"Will it take a long time?" Santana shouted, adjusting a sack across her back, "It's too cold to run for too long."

"You have a car, though, right?" Kurt asked, looking towards Blaine. Blaine nodded, and Santana raised a hand to the air in merriment.

With rain splashing up their legs and teeth chattering, the three of them reached Blaine's car. Blaine opened the back door, and Kurt took Santana and his things and tossed them in the back. He shrugged an apology as the wet fabric hit the seat. Blaine smiled and didn't seem to become angered by it.

Santana immediately climbed into the back seat with the bags, curling up on her side and closing her eyes. Kurt rolled his eyes, and offered her a blanket from his bag. She got it herself.

Kurt hesitated, wondering if he should get in besides Santana. Blaine noticed his indecision, and beckoned him to the passenger side. "You can sit up here," he suggested, and Kurt grinned broadly. He got into his side of the car and waited for Blaine to start the engine.

Kurt fingered his jacket, feeling it peel away from his soaked shirt with disgust. He wrinkled his nose, but said nothing. Santana grumbled something unintelligible from the back seat.

"Oh, right," Blaine muttered, turning up the heat. Instantly, a rush of cool air hit Kurt's face. He savored the way the bitter air cut at his already chilled cheeks; soon enough, though, the air faded into a warmth Kurt had not completely felt in more than six months. He smiled, hiding his face.

"I'm hungry," Santana grumped. Kurt turned to face her.

"I'm cold," he challenged, raising an eyebrow. Santana narrowed her eyes and sat up. She shook her head, deciding the conversation with him wasn't important enough. She straightened the blanket over her lap, and Kurt leaned down to grab one for himself.

"When are we going to be there, Curly-fries?" Santana asked Blaine, leaning forward to rest her elbows on his arm rest. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

"It won't take long," Blaine assured, eyes returning to the road, "A half hour, forty-five minutes at most."

Santana laid herself back down, yawning. "I'm gonna sleep." she announced, closing her eyes. Kurt glanced at her, and reached back to push the blanket more securely around her shoulders. She shrugged his hand off.

Minutes later, quiet snores alerted the awake two to Santana's unconsciousness. Kurt smiled. "I didn't actually think she would fall asleep."

Blaine smiled in return. "It's like you take care of her," he commented softly, wary of Santana's presence.

Kurt tilted his head to the side, considering. "No, I don't think so. I know she is fully able to look after herself, as I am as well, but it's just easier when we're together."

He continued, "Santana and I…we were never very good friends back in high school," Kurt paused at the look on Blaine's face. His lip tugged upward. "Yeah, we went to the same high school. We were in the same glee club, though we talked, we were never good friends."

Blaine said, "Santana Lopez?"

Kurt nodded, mouthed a 'yes'. Blaine grimaced. "Her name is everywhere."

"What?" Kurt asked, bending himself over the armrest to shoot a look at Blaine. "I mean, I know she's been identified, but…"

"It's all over the news, Kurt," Blaine said, looking over Kurt's face slowly, "The cops are after her. She's been reported to steal wallets, cars…"

"No," Kurt muttered, giving Santana's form an incredulous look, "Are you serious? Cars?"

Blaine nodded. "She could wake up at any moment. Shh."

Kurt leaned back in his seat, breathing through his mouth. Cars? He never knew she stole cars, hell, he thought, he didn't know much about her life in the past eight months. He took a shuddering breath.

"Are you all right?" Blaine asked, a concerned look on his face. "I'm sorry if you didn't want to know, I-"

"No, no," Kurt explained, "I'm just shocked, is all. I never knew she went that extensively into stealing."

Blaine let a tugging smile grace his lips. He said playfully, "So breaking into people's homes isn't extensive?"

Kurt shook his head, pressing his lips into a straight line to keep from smiling.

A few minutes later, Blaine's car slowed and pulled into an empty parking lot. Before them, a small building stood, the remnants of a sign hanging in shingles.

Santana awoke with a start, glared at the two of them and got out of the car. The rain was still pouring down heavily, and Kurt and Santana rushed to grab their things and get to the shelter of the building, where Blaine was looking in the window with cupped hands. Kurt slammed Blaine's car door shut and ran towards the front of the building.

"This is it?" he asked, dropping his bags once they were under the canopy roof. "I like it."

"We gotta get in some way, though," Blaine murmured, looking around. Kurt rolled his eyes and picked up his baggage, toting them with him towards the back of the foreclosed shelter. Santana followed, slinging her bags across her back. Blaine ran to catch up with Kurt, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"I've got it," Kurt said, crouching next to the lock on the back door. In a minute, the door creaked and Kurt pulled it open, grinning in approval.

"Wow."

Kurt nodded to Blaine, accepting the praise.

The building consisted of a large main room, dusty and unkempt but surprisingly warm. A back room to the left was the only other door in the facility, besides the main and storage door, which the three of them had come in.

Kurt dug in his bag, and conjured flashlights and camping lanterns. He held them up, getting a yell of excitement from Santana and Blaine. He set them on the ground and replaced the batteries, and soon the room was enveloped in a warm, orange light. Santana and Kurt skittered around, surveying the place for cameras or security devices. Once properly assured, Santana began to unpack. Kurt found a mirror on the wall, a small vanity mirror that made him wonder if this store was a clothing store, and he looked himself over. He growled in disgust.

Blaine came over, and saw Kurt's snarl of dissatisfaction. "You look great," he said, placing a hand on Kurt's shoulder. Kurt's eyes widened in shock and he looked at Blaine in the mirror, trying to hide a growing redness to his cheeks.

"C'mon, my gay little friends, let's cuddle around the fire." Santana lounged herself across an array of blankets and pillows she had organized into a collapsed fort a four year old would make.

Kurt nodded and twisted himself away from Blaine, sitting down to face Santana. He pulled a blanket across his shoulders, holding it securely under his nose, waiting for the blush to disappear.

"Well, I had better go," Blaine said, gesturing to the back door.

"You don't have to," Kurt said, voice muffled from the blanket.

"I don't know, I mean-"

"Oh , please, Blaine," Kurt interrupted, lowering the blanket to look at him appropriately, "As much as the humble trait looks good on you, just sit down and warm up with us."

Santana scanned Blaine's standing figure. She pursed her lips, but shrugged. "Come on, boy-toy. Sit your ass down."

"All right," Blaine agreed, shucking off his jacket and sitting, with what couldn't be called a coincidence, next to Kurt. Kurt rotated his body behind him and grabbed a thick blanket. He gave it to Blaine, smiling. Blaine took the material from him, and draped it over his and Kurt's lap.

Santana quirked an eyebrow, whispered 'wanky' in amusement. Kurt ignored her, beckoned to Blaine with a flick of the head to the same.

The dusty, little shop became, at once, a welcoming and comfortable place. With their makeshift lounging area, the three of them found warmth quickly and pleasantly. With the aid of the camping lantern, the orange glow illuminated their faces as they shared the relaxed silence. Briefly, Blaine's head happened upon a thought - a thought that asked himself why he was here. A year ago, he would have never stepped into this place and he would never have wanted to become friends with a criminal like Kurt.

He didn't regret a single thing. He didn't regret meeting Kurt, the mysterious boy who stood in his lawn and stared at him the first night. Kurt, the robber with a fiery attitude who had been held down by Blaine's weight the second time he was in his house. Kurt, the boy he had seen in the park and the criminal who had knocked the breath out of him with one strong punch to the chest.

He couldn't say he didn't like this boy.

Cautiously, Blaine moved his hand to feel around for Kurt's. Under the blanket, where Santana couldn't see, Blaine grasped onto Kurt's fingers with a strong hold. Kurt jerked in surprise, and looked over to Blaine in wonder. Blaine smiled softly, squeezing his hand reassuringly. After a tense moment, Kurt relaxed and squeezed back.


	11. Electricity

**A/N** **A F-Bomb is dropped in this chapter. Beware! I do not believe the single usage of that word requires a M rating, but if you disagree, please feel free to let me know.**

**In a quick personal note, I apologize for the lateness of this chapter. I'm such a failure. Things have been hectic, and although this chapter was finished quite a while ago, I was unable to publish it. Viruses.  
><strong>

_**That Was The Past**_

"Dammit!"

Kurt scrambled up from the ground, dodging a kick aimed for his leg, and threw an aimed punch towards the stomach of the man in front of him. The man's face was raked with dirt and misshapen tattoos, and a growl grew it's way onto his chapped lips. "Listen, pipsqueak, you just give me your money and we'll be all done 'ere."

Kurt laughed, a hint of nerves to his voice, as he took off in the opposite direction, back towards his and Santana's hideout. The man did not intend of Kurt leaving so quickly, as he came lumbering after him with a shout of, "Eh, get back 'ere!"

Kurt whipped around and stepped to the right, and the man went directly past him. Kurt smiled at the comic of the situation, but before he knew it, the man had thrown a strong handed slap to Kurt's face. A streaking pain hit him. He stumbled, clutching his cheek as he struggled to regain his balance. Removing his hand from his face, he become both mesmerized and shocked by the bright crimson that stained his finger.

The man, grinning, unveiled a shiny pocketknife, the tip exposed. In surprise, Kurt tripped over nothing, and he fell down and felt the man put his foot on his chest. With a snarl, Kurt remained calm and waited for the right moment to arrive.

"Gimme the money, then," the man said, reaching out a grubby hand, which was gripping the metallic pocketknife, blade glaring and open. Kurt squirmed half-heartedly, forcing himself to be unafraid, looking away. The man laughed out, "Look 'a you, a little boy like you taking on me! Listen kid, I'm top dog around 'ere."

Kurt grimaced, but did nothing. He loosened his muscles, becoming completely limp under him. The man studied him for a moment, but relaxed when he thought Kurt wouldn't try anything.

Kicking up, Kurt slammed his foot into the man's backside. He staggered off, and for good measure (and from pure anger), Kurt raised a leg and pushed the man in the back, toppling him over. Kurt smirked in accomplishment, walking over to the man and grabbing the man's weapon - the shiny pocketknife.

"I suppose that I'm top dog now, aren't I?" Kurt asked the man. "And I really am sorry about this, but I'm sure you'll be all right. You did attack me first."

The man grumbled and made a last attempt at getting Kurt's money; he grabbed Kurt's ankle with a firm hand, but all Kurt had to do was step on the man's arm with his other foot. The man yelped, and Kurt felt a wave a guilt before seeing the drops of blood leaking down from his cheek and onto his blue shirt.

Knowing the bread could wait, Kurt retreated back to his and Santana's home. Taking back routes to avoid lingering eyes, Kurt arrived at the small building in no time at all. Knocking four times on the back door, Santana's chosen way of security, Kurt waited for someone to let him. Footsteps grew louder, and the door swung open, revealing a disheveled Santana.

She scowled at him, and stormed back into the room, throwing the pillows and blankets through the air. Santana was muttering under her breath in rapid Spanish, whereas Blaine was cooing her to stop in the limited Spanish he knew. Kurt watched in slight amusement, slight annoyance.

Stepping into the room and surveying the scene, Kurt smiled. "Hey, Blaine. You live here now?" he teased good-naturedly. Blaine shook his head with a grin on his lips, and spoke quickly to Santana.

A prickling pain trickled across Kurt's cheek, and he raised a finger to probe at his gash once more. Blaine looked back towards Kurt, and halted in his comfort of Santana. He strode over to Kurt, gently grabbing at Kurt hand.

"Hey, what happened?" he asked, looking up at the cut on Kurt's cheek. Santana stopped in her rampage to listen in, hesitantly coming over with a curious look upon her face.

Kurt shrugged. "I left to the market to buy food, but before I could arrive I ran into some thug. Got into a fight."

Blaine gaped, wonder etched on his face. Santana grinned and clapped, exclaiming, "Way to go, Porcelain! I bet you fucked that guy up good!"

Kurt shot her look, and she quieted down though she still had a strange look upon her face- one of disbelief and pride. He redirected his attention to Blaine.

"I was leaning against a wall, accounting my money and deciding how much I should spend when he came, punching me in the stomach and trying to grab the cash."

"Oh, god," Blaine murmured, looking around hurriedly before his eyes fell on his water bottle. "Here. You can tell us your entire story as I clean that gash up."

He led Kurt over to the blanket disarray, Santana following eagerly, and sat him down in front of his lap. "There's not much to tell," Kurt said, flinching as Blaine's fingers worked on mopping up the blood on Kurt's cheek.

Santana said, "C'mon. How'd you get that nasty cut, hmm?"

"He had a pocketknife. He slapped me across the face with it," Kurt explained. Blaine grimaced but continued working, as Santana nearly jumped in excitement.

"What next?" she asked impatiently, eyes bright - brighter than Kurt had ever seen them in the time they've become reacquainted.

"I fell down, and he put his foot on my chest. He had the pocketknife at my face, and - oh, Blaine? You know that trick I used on you at your school? Where I kicked you in the back?"

"Yeah," Blaine smiled, shaking his head, "I remember it. Now hold still, I need to water down the cut."

"It did not work on Blaine so much as it worked on this man. He stumbled off of me, and I kicked him once more - for good measure, I assure you!" Kurt continued. Blaine chuckled, and Santana nodded happily.

"Did I tell you I took the pocketknife?" Kurt asked, reaching into his pocket and protruding the red object. Santana was beside herself with strange glee, clinging to the story like it was the one light in her life.

Blaine hesitated, plucking the pocketknife from Kurt's grasp. "Kurt, I think it'd be safe to get the cut checked out."

"Are you insane?" Kurt stuttered, "I can't! I'm _missing_, remember?"

"Kurt, it could get infected! We don't know where it has been," Blaine reasoned, "At least put some antibacterial spray on it."

Kurt wandered over to the vanity mirror and looked over his cut. He was a gnarly one, and though it did not seem particularly deep, Kurt could understand Blaine's worry. Fingering it lightly, he sighed and turned back to the awaiting two behind him.

"We don't have any," he said, "Would you care to drive us to a pharmacy?"

Santana held up her hands. "No, there's no 'us' in this. I don't want to go. They'll recognize me right off the bat; you, though, you're not an identified crook yet."

Kurt nodded. "Okay. Just don't get us caught?"

"I've heard the story a thousand and one times," Santana groaned, plopping herself down on the makeshift bed of pillows and blankets. Kurt stared at her for a moment, trying to gauge her feelings, but giving up. He turned to Blaine.

"Is it all right if we go?" he asked. Blaine walked towards the exit, grabbing his jacket and opening the door with a smile.

"Of course. It'll take all of fifteen minutes, and soon we'll be back here and I'll be reveling in the _criminal-ness _of you two."

Kurt and him stepped out into the air, and headed towards Blaine's partially hidden car. "We're not holding you hostage, Blaine." Kurt shot him a smile. "You don't have to be with us all the time."

"I know," Blaine said, a grin evident in even his voice, "I just appreciate your friendship more than I do Trent's or Thad's. Besides, you are far more interesting."

"Well, thank you," Kurt replied, "I'm suppose getting sliced in the face with a knife _is_ interesting."

Blaine rolled his eyes and hopped into the driver's end of the car, gesturing to Kurt to get in the opposite door. He obliged, if not uneasily, looking over his shoulder warily. Instinctively, Kurt covered his cut with his hand, feeling over the dashed skin. It hurt, as any wound should, but Kurt didn't believe it was absolutely _necessary_ to get it properly cleaned.

"It's really not that big of a deal," Kurt said airily as Blaine directed the car out of the lot.

"It could get infected, Kurt," Blaine replied, glancing at him briefly before looking back towards the road before him.

"What are the odds?" Kurt sniffed, averting his eyes to the window, gazing at the green blurs.

"Pretty high, actually." Blaine swerved onto a back road, heading towards a clearly distinguishable pharmacy. Kurt shook his head, ridding himself of uneasy feelings; a small town was just a block from his and Santana's hideout.

Blaine craned his neck, searching for a parking space while Kurt mulled inarticulate phrases through his head. Faintly, he heard Blaine hum a series of notes, the melody bringing sparks of remembrance to his mind. He raised an eyebrow at Blaine's antics, but smiled softly.

"Katy Perry?" he asked, wrinkling his nose slightly. Blaine pulled into a vacant area of the lot.

"Mmm, yeah," Blaine admonished, throwing Kurt a wink and a grin. "You know, 'you make me feel like I'm living a teenage…'"

"Yes, yes, _teenage dream." _Kurt rolled his eyes. "What a wonderful song. Now can we get the antibacterial spray?"

The two proceeded into the store, pushing the doors open and feeling the strong gust of warm air hit their face as they stepped into the welcome area. Kurt ducked his head, immediately wishing he had opted to stay in the car. Blaine caught on to Kurt's insecurities and lifted a hand to squeeze his shoulder. It was a strong, but gentle, reassurance, and Kurt felt himself gain a bit of confidence at the simple touch. It reminded him of the way Blaine had held his hand.

He shook his head, forcing his mind elsewhere.

"I think," Kurt started, murmuring softly, "I think it's over here."

Blaine nodded absently, heading towards a heavily displayed aisle of band-aids and gauze. Cautiously, Kurt checked his back for employees and scanned the perimeter of the store under his lashes, not daring to look up. Surely a pharmacy would carry _missing_ articles from newspapers.

Although he felt surges of courage from Blaine and Blaine's presence (why, he wasn't sure and he chose not to dwell on it), it still did not deter from the obvious danger surrounding him.

Blaine, while Kurt had been residing in his thoughts, had been thoughtfully looking over rows of medical bottles and caps. Kurt returned to his side and plucked up a container at random. He said, quickly, "This is as good as any. I'll pay for this and," he dropped his voice to an urgent whisper, "get out of here as quickly as possible."

"Kurt," Blaine soothed, chuckling lightly, "It's fine. The store is practically empty."

"That may be so, but you have no idea how many times I have been called out for looking familiar. One of these days, _someone's_ going to take a second glance at me and remember that I'm that kid who ran away. I _need_ this, Blaine! They'll take it away, all away, and I'll be left with nothing!" Kurt spoke quickly, tripping over his words with a palpable haste and fear, letting the veracity of the words dissolve to the pit of his stomach.

"Whoa, hey." Blaine grabbed a promising spray and lifted up Kurt's hands, temporarily putting the bottle in his pocket. He grasped Kurt's hands in his own, looking securely into his eyes. "Why don't we pay for this," he paused, giving a small, reassuring smile, "and then we can talk this over. It'll do us both some good."

Kurt nodded, for that was all he could do at that point, pardoning the resistance to shedding tears and the refusal to run - run until he felt he had outran his problems.

Blaine proceeded to the register, motioning for Kurt to walk with him. Kurt forced his legs to move, and Blaine, upon noticing Kurt's hesitance, laid out his arm and wiggled his fingers playfully with a teasing grin on his lips.

Kurt rolled his eyes and stepped forward to stand by Blaine's side, grasping the outstretched hand, but now leading the way to the register. Blaine caught up and Kurt snatched the small bottle from Blaine's free hand. He pulled out a few bills and paid the cashier - an old woman with a kind smile but nearly nonexistent teeth - and headed out the door.

"Where are we off to, now?" Kurt asked as he hopped lightly into Blaine's passenger door. Blaine followed his action, but did not say anything until he had started the ignition and exited the carpark.

"So," Blaine said, "I was thinking we could just hang out in a park? It's secluded, and we'll have the privacy to talk without fear of someone hearing in."

"Sounds good," Kurt assented, picking up the bottle and reading the instructions. Blaine glanced over, shook his head good-naturedly.

"You could do it here, if you want, but I think it'd be easier and safer to do on stable ground." His face became confused as he treaded his car through the neighborhood roads, trying and failing to follow the signs directing him to a local park.

"That may be a good idea," Kurt muttered, "But hurry up; my cheek is starting to burn."

After Blaine chuckled softly, silence overtook their conversation. Kurt pointed out the right road to take, and Blaine nodded in thanks, and soon the two were pulling up to an admittedly small, but empty, field. In the background, far off near a circular ice rink, was a little play structure. Idly, Kurt remembered a place like this was his and Blaine's first _official_ meeting place. Blaine must've had the same thought, for he looked to Kurt with a happy glint in his eye and a grin on his red lips.

"After you." Kurt motioned to the door, and Blaine got out slowly, waiting for Kurt to join him. The two found a comfortable patch of grass underneath a tree and on top of a slight hill. They were completely cascaded in shade, and Kurt let himself lounge back - realizing with a start that this moment could be his first moment of relaxation in an immeasurable amount of time.

"You all right?" Blaine asked, concern woven in to his ivory voice. Kurt nodded, watching as Blaine laid down hesitantly next to him, an arm underneath his head as a pillow. He stared at the canopy of branches above him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Kurt responded, "I was just thinking about the last time I was able to completely unwind like this."

"I take it you can't very often?" Blaine questioned, looking over to him. Kurt shrugged, a difficult task to accomplish while laying down. Blaine chortled at the sight, and Kurt couldn't help but join in on the unexpected, but entirely welcome, fit of laughter.

"Ah, wait." Blaine hurried to sit up. He took hold of Kurt's shoulders and hoisted him up as well. "Give me the antibacterial spray. We forgot to do it."

"And, now that you reminded me, my cheek is burning once again," Kurt moaned, feigning anger. Blaine opened the bottle, simply ripping a layer of plastic off, before testing it on shards of grass.

"Don't bitch at me, Kurt," Blaine sang, shaking the product absently. "Now come here."

Kurt wondered if he should treat himself, because in all reality it _was _his cut and he had acquired it on his own foolishness and temper, but as much as he knew he could very well take care of himself, he was not able to defy Blaine's kind offer. Kurt was incapable of telling why.

These silly feelings - feelings of utter bewilderment and an eccentric sort of enticement Kurt got only when around Blaine - left him confused. From past experiences, mainly with one Finn Hudson, Kurt knew what it felt like to have a crush. Crushes are a fake sort of longing to another person, a way to remind yourself that there will be someone out there for you. Crushes never reach beyond 'like', never could touch 'love'.

It was the first time Kurt admitted this to himself - he was more than one hundred percent sure he had feelings beyond love for Blaine Anderson, and he really shouldn't, he knew, for the two had only known each other for all of a couple months, and in that time half of the occurrences of contact were by chance. Kurt Hummel loved Blaine Anderson.

Shaking himself and nodding to Blaine, he said, "Sure. Just be careful."

Tentatively, Blaine reached out and took Kurt's chin in his hand, guiding his head towards him. His fingers splayed across Kurt's cheek, of seemingly their own accord, and Kurt flinched when he felt a blush creep up his neck.

Blaine lifted up the bottle, and upon seeing it, Kurt shut his eyes quickly and advised Blaine to be quick with it. He could nearly feel Blaine nodding, and soon a light sheen of the spray was coated against his cut. Expecting pain, and not receiving any at all, Kurt breathed a sigh of relief. He opened his eyes.

Hand still upon Kurt's face, Blaine found himself unable to retract. Kurt looked up into Blaine's eyes, wondering silently why he was still cupping his face, and Blaine wanted to be asking himself the same question, though he knew exactly why he kept Kurt's face in such a close proximity. He just hadn't worked up the courage to act on his wishes.

Kurt breathed out, air ghosting over Blaine's lips. The scene around them became still, silent, and on an impulse that could not be described as impulsive, Kurt was leaning in and closing his eyes. His lips met with Blaine's, and an electrifying spark blasted through his veins, thrumming a song of breathtaking shocks through his body.

Blaine gasped against Kurt's mouth, and soon he was deepening the kiss in response. For a few moments, the two simply sat there, taking each other in and asking themselves why they had never bucked up the bravery to do this before.

Kurt broke away first, breathing heavily and looking frantically over Blaine's face. A rush of insecurities took Kurt over, and he didn't know how Blaine would react to Kurt's kiss. He had seemed rather _in to it_ at that point, but surely Blaine would yell at him _now._

"I'm sorry," Kurt murmured at last, ducking his head and playing with his fingers on his lap.

"I'm not," Blaine answered, smiling shyly, and the statement was so cliché, so unexpected and so _Blaine_ that Kurt couldn't help but let himself grin in return. "_I_ am sorry, though, that it ended."

Kurt quirked an eyebrow, the grin having been replaced with a mischievous smirk he said, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Blaine answered quickly before he was on Kurt again, their mouths connecting and the same streak of jolts ripped through them once more.


	12. Bandit

**A/N This story underwent a name change. Previously "The World To Gain".**

_**That Was The Past**_

An hour later found the two lounging on the same patch of grass, staring at the shifting sky while daring subtle looks to the other when they thought it would go unnoticed; it did not, but they did not mind in the least.

Things had become silent after their kiss - or one could call it two kisses, three, _four_ - but it was not an uncomfortable silence. Kurt wondered if a silence between them had ever been awkward.

Deciding the break that peace, Kurt spoke, and what a thrilling statement to begin with, "You never even told me you were gay."

"I could be asking you the same thing," Blaine countered back, relaxing his cheek on the grass to properly look at him. Kurt raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Ah," he said, "we're playing _that_ game."

Blaine chuckled softly, and moved a bit closer to Kurt. Hesitantly, hand shaking, he reached out and placed a light grasp on Kurt's upper arm, squeezing gently, reassuringly. He blinked slowly, reveling in the moment, as if the only way to savor it was to slow it down. "Well, yes, I'm gay. I trust you are, too?"

Kurt sniffed, though a grin bloomed in his lips. "I am."

Blaine opened his mouth to speak, but, hurriedly, Kurt cut him off with an apologetic frown. "We came here to talk about what happened in pharmacy, and as much as I don't want to - and I really _don't want to_ - I feel like I should. I hope you'll stick around, so I'll come clean."

"And I, you." Blaine smiled. Kurt nodded, took a deep breath, and started.

"I already told you about the night I left - but only the night. Before that… well, it's something I've barely mentioned to Santana.

"Before _this_, I went to high school and I participated in Glee club; I loved singing, fashion and acting. I had a dad, no mom, and things were all right. The only thing that caused me trouble were the Neanderthals that would tantalize me day in and day out during school.

"But then my dad had a heart attack. He didn't die, but he fell into a coma. I think he still is."

Blaine paused, cocking his head to the side, plump lips parting in confusion. "Think?"

"That's how I got here. Social Services put me in foster care, and for a few months I was under control of a family I didn't know, didn't care to know, and could go as far as to say I hated. With them, and the increased multitude of bullying, I couldn't take it anymore."

"So you left," Blaine finished, the faintest touch of awe painting his voice. Kurt nodded grimly, and continued.

"I don't want to do this, believe me, I _don't."_ Kurt stumbled over his words, and he looked towards the sky for a resolution, something to hold on to. He returned his eyes back to Blaine, and he held on to Blaine's free, outstretched arm. He was something to hold on to.

"I want to get out of this place. I want to live in New York, and I want to start over. I am so close to getting there, I can almost touch it."

Blaine held his peace, the only sound coming from him was the absorbed, almost melodic rising and stilling of his chest.

"But I'm still a criminal, and I'm still a Missing person. Those things just don't go away, so I'm stuck. I'm at a complete standstill and there's nothing I can do about it! I just _need_ to get out of here!"

Kurt could feel himself growing anxious and frantic, and he struggled to get a hold on himself. Soothing circles were being rubbed into his skin by Blaine's thumb, and that simple action was ashamedly relaxing him more than anything else he had ever tried.

"It's okay," Blaine murmured, and all at once the atmosphere around them became hushed and concentrated. Kurt felt the space around them spinning, though they did not move, and the only thing reaching Kurt in this haze of frenetic obsession was Blaine's voice.

"Tell me more," came his voice, and Kurt grimaced because Blaine was correct, he wanted to tell Blaine more. He had never revealed this much to anyone, not even Santana, but it felt so gloriously good to finally let it spill from his lips.

"Everyday I wonder if my dad has woken up, but then I know that he hasn't, because I know he would be looking for me. He'd be looking for me harder than the agency is," he said quietly, and suddenly, it hit him like a hurricane and then he was flinching and rushing to sit up.

"Or he has woken already, but isn't looking for me?" he asked, voice so miniscule and so muted that Blaine had to sit up and strain his ears to hear.

Blaine took Kurt's hands in his and asked him, "How good was your relationship with your father before he became comatose?"

Kurt ducked his head regretfully. "Very good. I told him everything."

"Then I know he would be looking for you if he could."

"You don't know that," Kurt said, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt his shoulders stiffen. Because he knew his father loved him, and he knew he loved his father, but would his father really come looking for him? _Could_ his father come looking for him? It was such a terrible, terrible thought he had to pause to render what he had just said. "Nevermind."

Blaine's eyes scanned Kurt's face slowly, gently seeking for an explanation. Kurt sighed and shifted so his arms were crossed tightly over his raised knees, chin on his arms. He stared off and refused to make eye contact. "It's been a long time."

And that was all he said. Try as he might, Blaine could not provoke any sort of clarification beyond that from him. So, instead, _he_ spoke.

"I can't imagine my own father ever becoming comatose." Kurt's head turned inquisitively, shock depicting his face.

"Oh god, Blaine, we've never really spoken about your life. I feel terrible now."

"Kurt," Blaine laughed lightly, shooing off Kurt's regrets with a flip of his hand, "it's alright. Besides, your life is far more interesting than mine."

Kurt sighed. "It's both a curse and a gift. But anyway, we're done with me. Tell me everything about you, your life, and your family."

Blaine gave Kurt a side-eye, long glance, reminding him that the previous conversation was not over. Kurt was sure, however, that it should be; as much as he craved this new aspect of a confidant, he was, admittedly, terrified of it. It was never easy to talk about himself and his troubles, even before he found himself stealing into private homes.

"Well," Blaine started, leaning back down on the grass, fingers lacing across his chest, "My name is Blaine Anderson. I go to Dalton Academy. I sing."

Kurt rolled his eyes and threw Blaine a sneer. "Those are the things I found out on my own, Blaine. C'mon, spill all the juicy, delicious details."

So he did.

"You've seen my father, right?" Blaine asked, to which Kurt nodded, smirking at the memory, "Well, I love him. He loves me. He spends a lot of time working, though, and it limits the time the rest of us get to spend with him, but we know he tries.

"It's gotten to a point where I just assume he calls his hotel rooms his home now. But he really makes an effort to be with us, almost to the point of collapse, and that's why we never get angry at him. Surprisingly, he's the one who accepts me more than my mother does."

Kurt faltered. "Accepts you, as in he-"

"Yes," Blaine interrupted, "When I told my entire close family I was gay, it didn't even seem to disconcert him; he said it didn't matter to him, he loved me for me and wouldn't have me any other way.

"My mother became distant. Her conversations with me were stiff, tense, like she couldn't wait to escape off into another room. My brother's moved out, has been for years. He's much older than me. He, like my father, accepts me fully., but both of them and really never around. So it leaves my mother and I, most of the time, to hold edgy talk and reserved contacts."

"Blaine, that's appalling - just, inexcusable," Kurt stuttered, for once short of words, "Shall I go scare some sense into her?"

Blaine chuckled softly, looking up from his spot on the ground. "You've been to my house two times already. Isn't that a bit much, bandit?"

"Bandit?" Kurt asked in ersatz offense. He moved away from Blaine, head turned, grinning as Blaine made a questioning noise. Then, as quick and as slick as he could muster, he shot himself back towards Blaine, landing on top of him and straddling his stomach. He held his forearm against Blaine's throat, smirking mischievously. "Now Blaine, don't go around calling people names. Besides, you love that I'm dangerous."

Blaine's eyes flashed up to his, and upon realizing what he had just implied, Kurt shifted so he was lying down next to Blaine, thereby concealing his face and his quite obvious reaction. "Tell me about your friends. From what I remember, they're an interesting bunch."

* * *

><p>That night, after Kurt and Blaine had returned to the hideaway, after Blaine had left, the rain returned. First it was nothing but a drizzle, and it had actually been nice, to see and feel the light spray on stressed skin, but then it had grown stronger and now it was just getting out of control.<p>

Huddled in a corner of the room, Kurt wrapped another blanket around himself, tightening and securing it around his body. Santana was next to a window, staring out with her arms crossed. Kurt sniffed and raised a hand to his cheek, feeling the scratch almost absentmindedly. "Santana?" he called.

"What?" she snapped, whipping a glare towards him, staring expectantly.

"Come over here."

With an exaggerated sigh, Santana walked her bare feet over to where he was curled in a bundle of blankets. She dropped down next to him, and, looking unsure, began to find a comfortable position. Kurt rolled his eyes and opened up the blankets for Santana to crawl in. She did so, gratefully, and soon the two were drawn up together. Usually Kurt could not stand much contact from others, but whatever event had caused him to feel that way didn't matter anymore because that was the past, and the past doesn't play a part in his life anymore. He shuddered.

"Have fun with Blaine today?" she asked, settling her head on the wall behind them. He looked over to her and sighed.

"Loads."

A moment passed.

"You're not telling me something. I can practically smell the _lies," _Santana said, crowding up closer to Kurt and nearly drooling in his ear for answers. "Come on, tell Mama Lopez."

"Technically, _Mama Lopez_," Kurt responded, "it's not lying if I don't tell you."

"God, Hummel, just tell me!"

He groaned and avoided eye contact. Staring out the small window, he said, "I kissed Blaine."

Santana raised her eyebrows impressively, tilting her head inquisitively and shrugging to herself. "Huh. All right. If that's all you have to share, then."

Kurt turned and stared at her incredulously. "W-What? You were so eager to hear what I had been hiding from you, and that's all the reaction I get?"

"It was bound to happen sooner or later, so I'm not surprised. I see how smitten you are with him, and the same goes for him. He's always staring at you. Makes me sick."

Kurt eyed her. "Santana," he said warningly, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"No," she stated bluntly, "Why?"

"You seem jealous, is all."

"No," she repeated, "No, Kurt. Don't bring up anything like that again. When I want to talk about my life, we will. But not now."

Kurt staggered, surprised at her defense, nearly hostile, tone. Although she had simply said to let it drop, he found himself unwilling to do so. But when he prompted her again and again, she responded by turning away from him and becoming silent.

Kurt followed suit, though reluctant to do so but convinced by the dark sky, he leaned himself against her back and lulled himself to sleep.


End file.
